


all roads lead back to home

by altinbar



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Armin Arlert-centric, College Parties, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eren Yeager Being an Asshole, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Long-Haired Eren Yeager, Multi, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, better late than never right?, but angst is minimal, kind of, this belongs in the 2015 aot fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:09:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 25,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28919598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altinbar/pseuds/altinbar
Summary: College is hard enough. But Armin has just returned to his hometown after six years, and his childhood best friend (who somehow got stupidly gorgeous) is acting off with him. Then there's the parties, the friends, the brunches, the parties, the essays, the parties... did he mention the parties?updates fridays and mondays (GMT)
Relationships: Armin Arlert/Eren Yeager, Krista Lenz | Historia Reiss/Ymir, Mikasa Ackerman & Armin Arlert, Mikasa Ackerman & Armin Arlert & Eren Yeager, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 229
Kudos: 314





	1. 'sup

**Author's Note:**

> i would like to preface this by letting everyone know i am WELL aware this belongs way back in 2015 aot fandom but no i will not be apologising for that :)

“So now you just want to write up your bibliography..” Armin says, watching carefully as Mikasa writes the last few words of an essay plan. They’re at her wooden kitchen table. Armin’s chair is a little wobbly, but it always has been. He can’t remember a time when this dining table wasn’t here, next to the window with the view of her backyard, making the space between the hall and the kitchen a little impassable, but not too awkwardly so.

“And that’s.. That’s it?” She asks, bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Hmm. You made it so simple… Thank you, Armin.” He smiles in response, blushing already at the meagrest implication of praise.

“Ahh- really, it’s nothing! I should be thanking you! If it wasn’t for you..” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. It had been a while since Armin had had any real friends, what with his perpetual status of ‘new kid’, thanks to his parents’ jobs forcing them to move frequently. Which, for Armin, had meant moving high schools every few months. Yeah. It’s about as rough as it sounds.

“Don’t mention it,” Mikasa hums, shuffling her collection of papers into a pile that she tucks into the front page of her text book. Armin neatly slots his own notes away into his folder, which gets put into his backpack. “I’m glad you’re back. I just wish-”

“Yeah. But I’m glad, too. I’ve missed Shiganshina.” He is glad, really. College was a welcome opportunity to exercise some freedom. It was nice, to be back in his hometown, even if it meant he hadn’t had time to look for student accommodation and he was still living with his grandpa. Hell, it even had its perks. He had more space than any of his friends who were sharing apartments or living on campus. And it still beat living with his parents. For one, there were no more rules about fast food, no more Mom nagging about how processed all that crap is. He could eat as much as wants, when he wants. His grandpa didn’t even mind when he got home. His parents would nag him about his curfew even after his eighteenth birthday. So, not having his own place wasn’t so bad.

But the best thing about being back in Shiganshina was Mikasa. Childhood best friends, finally reunited. No more lunch alone in the library, and no more weekends with nothing but his books for company. It would be nice if Eren would hang out with them again - then it would be really like the old days again - but Armin tries not to dwell on it anymore. He’s home, and that’s enough. Besides, Mikasa has a bunch of other friends! Even though they’re kind of Eren’s friends. It works. It’s working.

“Shiganshina’s missed you too, Armin.” Mikasa smiles, and it’s sincere. Armin thinks that when she smiles, really smiles, it looks like she’s going to cry. It’s nice to see her that happy. She never used to smile like that. He supposes a lot has changed since then. It’s quiet for a moment then, and Armin can’t help but wonder, insecurely, whether it’s awkward or not. He looks down to his backpack and realises his folder is half-sticking-out, so he jiggles it up and down for a moment before zipping it back up. He’s just about to decide that it’s not, in fact, awkward, when the pad of socked feet enters Mikasa’s kitchen. He draws in a deep breath, not willing to lift his head back up above the table quite yet.

“Yo, Mikasa, what are you thinking of for dinner?” He hears Eren ask.

“Hmm. Not sure. Armin?” Crap. His cover’s been blown. “You wanna eat here?”

Armin slowly, very slowly, straightens out to sit straight in his chair. In his panic, he forgets the wobbly leg, and his chair shuffles awkwardly beneath him, and, in turn, Armin makes an even more awkward sound. Something that wouldn’t have been out of place coming from an eleven year old boy on the uncomfortable cusp of puberty (and trust me, Armin knows all about that) but is just kind of (read: completely) inappropriate from an eighteen year old college student. “I’m good, thanks.” It comes out shorter and squeakier than he had hoped.

“Oh. Armin’s here. Hey, man.” “Hey, man. ‘Sup.” Armin attempts what he hopes is a gruff, manly man’s voice. He even throws in finger guns for good measure, but Eren looks at this gesture with something in between confusion and disgust, so Armin tries and fails to nonchalantly cover the offending hand with his fist.

“..’Sup?” Eren says, like it’s a question.

“You’re sure you won’t stay, Armin?” Mikasa asks. “We could go pick up something from a drive-thru? I know for a fact you haven’t tried Mc Donald’s nuggets yet. We could get a twenty piece share box…” Armin isn’t sure why the last four words sound so seductive to him. He must be spending too much time with Mikasa’s friend, Sasha. “Or you could go home and finish a jigsaw with your grandfather.”

“Hey!” Armin squawks indignantly. “Jigsaws are a great way to improve-” Eren clears his throat. Armin is glad his puzzle defence speech is cut short.

“I’ll have my usual, Mikasa. Thanks, Armin,” Eren flashes that grin, white teeth bared and nose crinkled. Armin isn’t fooled; he knows it’s insincere. “I’ll venmo you.” Mikasa shakes her head, mouthing, _no, he won’t_ , but Eren pays no notice, already dashing back down the hall.

It’s a relief when Armin can escape to the safety of his own car. His car is an old, battered thing, but Armin was never really big into motors. He’s not even sure what breed this is. Make. Not breed. Jean had laughed at him when he had said that in his first week back at school. It belonged to his grandfather before he had it, but his grandpa was in no fit state to drive anymore. Armin is only just turning the keys to the ignition when Mikasa begins her interrogation. She’s trying to look cool about it, running her hand through the back of her now short hair - Armin had gawped when he saw the change his first day back, but not as much as he had when he saw Eren’s grown out mop - but Armin can sense her classic dead-pan devilish side a mile off. It’s weird how some things seem completely different, yet other times Armin can swear that nothing has changed.

“So. ‘Sup?” Mikasa starts.

Oh, yeah. There’s always that.

“I always say that.” Armin jumps to his own defence, but his voice is already creeping way back up to that embarrassing pitch that it always does when he’s point blank lying. Mikasa laughs- it’s louder than it normally is, around everyone at college.

“I have _never_ heard you speak like a straight gamer boy-”

“Ohhh, was it really that obvious?” Armin groans as he pulls off of the curb outside of the Jaeger’s house. Seeing as their parents’ house was so close to campus, neither Mikasa or her adoptive brother saw the need to move out. Armin suspects that Eren was just reluctant to give up any of his home comforts, and that Mikasa would go where Erent went anyway. It’s almost like they live alone anyway: their dad is a doctor, and he’s usually off on trips to less fortunate countries to do what he can to help. Now that Eren and Mikasa can take care of themselves, Carla (Armin only calls her that at her own insistence) goes with him. From the letters and calls they get back, it seems she’s popular with the children. Armin isn’t shocked, she always had a way with him when he was a kid. She’s the kind of mom everyone wouldn’t mind having as their own.

“No, of course not.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Mikasa.”

The rest of the evening, thankfully, goes along less eventfully. Armin doesn’t even have to see Eren again; Mikasa just tosses his bag of food on to the kitchen counter before taking Armin through to her own room to eat. She has an old, fat, CRT TV in there, which she switches on to play an old Star Wars VHS that neither of them are really interested in. Armin thinks that the grainy picture is comfortingly nostalgic.

“Weren’t these nuggets worth your humiliation?” Mikasa asks, drenching one in sauce. Armin moans around his mouthful, nodding vigorously, smiling with puffed out cheeks due to overstuffing his mouth as Mikasa snickers at him. They’re sat cross legged on her twin size bed. Armin wouldn’t be shocked if this bed spread was from way back when he lived in Shiganshina as a kid. It’s quite the sight now, what with Mikasa’s rather drastic change in style. He isn’t sure whether Mikasa would take offence if he described it as got, but that’s definitely what came to mind. Her wardrobe seemed now to consist of a lot of black, edgy pieces that often have Armin staring at her outfits in awe. Sometimes she would do a spin to give him the full view. And she’s promised to take him shopping one day. Armin is going to hold her to that.

They easily finish the food they’ve brought between the two of them. When Mikasa takes the empty boxes to put in the trash, he can hear Eren yelling something at his playstation. From what Armin can make out, it’s mostly obscenities. When they would take turns trying to beat Super Mario Bros levels as kids, he would always get ridiculously mad. One time Carla had gone as far as to have to confiscate the DS from him. Nothing’s changed there, then, Armin guesses, and somehow the familiarity is comforting.

Obviously, it can’t last. He feels as though he could spend forever in Mikasa’s bedroom, not paying attention to a movie while they sip drinks so sugary that if his mom knew, she would pass out, and gossip about things so scandalous that once again, it could probably make his mom pass out. He thinks the idea of Armin in a girls room alone would make her pass out. And his dad. Nobody saw that coming. Admittedly, they were painting each other's nails and making a list of clothes to look out for at the mall when they finally got a chance to go together, but it was a girl’s room nonetheless. But the sun has long set, it being nearer the winter months, and Armin is beginning to worry that his grandpa will have finished the puzzle they were working on without him if he doesn’t head back soon. Mikasa walks him to the door.

“Thanks for helping me with that assignment. And for hanging out,” She smiles. “I’ve missed you.” She’s said that pretty much everyday since he got back just before the semester started in September. Armin doesn’t mind this addition to the routine.

“I missed you too.” Both of you, he wants to add, but refrains.

“See you in class?” She asks.

“You know it.”


	2. traitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> usernames for this chapter, just in case they weren't clear: eren as jaeger.bomb; sasha as sasha_420; connie as conman_; mikasa as kasa.a; reiner as armourbraun; annie as leonhart_annie :)

Don’t be fooled. I know that you’re thinking that this sweet old man could never do any wrong, with his sparkly eyes and gummy smile. Half of the time he looks like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. But Armin, knowing his grandpa better than anyone else, knows better. This is no innocent old man. This is a duplicitous, unfaithful, treacherous bastard.

“I’m home,” Armin calls, slinging his car keys on to the telephone table. He hears a giggle, gleeful, from the lounge.

“Armin, quick, I’m in here!” Armin frowns a little, making the few paces from the hall into the front room. It’s a pretty big house, considering there’s only the two of them here. As for his grandmother, well, Armin had never met her. Cancer, found too late. It’s sad, but from all the stories he’s been told and pictures he’s been shown, he can conjure up a pretty solid idea of her in his mind, as if they had met at some point. His grandpa had always described the two of them as kindred spirits. When he was a kid, Armin had brushed that off as generic old people talk, but now, part of him wondered if it was true.

“You okay, grandpa?” He asks, leaning against the door frame.

“Oh, yes..” He says, darkly. He’s turning something small between his wrinkled fingers. “Just didn’t want you to miss the last piece going in, is all.”

Armin’s stomach lurches, realisation setting in like a punch to the gut. His eyes widen, recognising the object in the old man’s hand to be the last piece of the jigsaw. It’s quite a lovely scene, too - a red steam engine, and lots of people in old fashioned outfits waving it off from the platform, Armin had ordered it online for grandpa’s birthday a few months ago.

“You wouldn’t,” He whispers.

“Oh,” The old man says, pressing in the final missing piece. “I would.”

At that moment, the weeks worth of hard work is hardly worth it. All the satisfaction is lost to Armin, who is left to simply scowl at his cackling grandpa. “You’re a cruel man, grandfather,” he says, coldly, feigning hurt. “You better let me do the last piece next time, okay?”

“Only if you’re quick enough,” His grandpa barters, eyes twinkling. Armin knows he’ll save it next time. He smiles back.

“Have you eaten yet? I ate at Mikasa’s, but I can make you something?” Armin sets to taking his shoes off- battered old vans which he doesn’t bother unlacing before lobbig them in the general direction of the shoe rack by the front door. Hm. Close enough, he thinks. Looking back up, he finds his grandpa waving him off with a dismissive wave.

“Don’t you worry about your old man. I had a casserole ready meal.” Armin wants to pull a face, but refrains. “Now, shoo, I have a show to watch.” He acts grumpy a lot, but Armin knows he’s actually grateful for the company. He hates to think of all the years he spent alone, while he and his parents were off globe trotting; it makes his eyes sting when he thinks about all the birthdays and Christmases that they missed.

The TV fizzles to life (an updated model that Armin’s parents had donated- his old system wasn’t much newer than the CRT TV in Mikasa’s room) and his grandpa squints at the remote, jabbing buttons to access his recordings. He puts on an old show- Armin swears he remembers this from visits as a kid, so surely he’s already seen all the episodes - and settles back into his plush leather armchair. Armin darts past the TV to move the foldable table out of his way, carefully lifting it so as not to disturb the finished puzzle that’s on top of it. He gets a grunt of thanks as the old man reclines his chair.

Armin’s room is still pretty bare. Moving around a lot means you don’t really get to collect much stuff. There’s his bed, and his desk, a few empty shelves, and not much else. He has a few trinkets, mostly shells and souvenirs from his travels, but it all feels pretty impersonal. Mikasa’s wall is adorned with photos of herself and friends. Sometimes, Armin points towards a random one and asks for the tale behind it. Weirdly, Armin likes to hear the stories. He thought that it would’ve been more bittersweet, or he would’ve felt a little left out. Instead, it's nice, and it helps Armin to get some of the inside jokes, so he can actually laugh along, instead of nervously giggling and pretending he knew. He isn’t used to not knowing. He doesn’t like it much.

So, sure, Armin doesn’t have snapshots of memories to paste on his wall, but he’s getting there. There’s talk of a holiday party in the Christmas break. Mikasa said he has to go. It’s quite shocking for Armin to discover that he’s actually looking forward to it. He’s nervous, of course, but that seems to Armin’s default setting, so it would probably be just as weird if he was calm about it. That would probably make him nervous again. It’s sort of a cycle.

Armin sighs, getting up from his spot on his bed, to walk a few energetic laps around his bedroom, before giving up, throwing himself hopelessly and a little dramatically on to his bed, staring at the ceiling. He’s thinking about  _ him _ again. Pulling his phone out of his back pocket (he has to shift awkwardly, arching his back off the bed to reach into the back of his jeans), he catches his bottom lip between his teeth and chews gently for a moment. He could just text him. He has his snapchat, instagram, and even his number now, saved under ‘eren :-)’. Nobody else on his contact list had a smiley face. He would probably die if anyone found out.

A few messages ping up on an instagram group chat. Mikasa’s friend, Connie has sent a pixelated image of a horse with too many red-orange filters, and bold text that simply reads ‘HORSE’ and a blushing emoji. 

**jaeger.bomb: lol why’d u send a pic of jean**

**sasha_420: cute pic jeanbo!!😳**

**kirschtime: i’m gonna kill u jaeger**

**conman_: sasha said the same thing**

**jaeger.bomb: as if u could take me in a fight asshole**

Armin smiles. He isn’t really sure why. He guesses it’s just nice to see Eren in his natural element, which is pissing people off and threatening to punch them. It shouldn’t be as comforting as it is. Sighing again, he clicks off of the chat, then switches his phone off, but it likely hasn’t been a minute before he switches it back on again restlessly. 

He could just text him.

Even if he just replied to one of Eren’s messages on the groupchat, it would be some improvement on whatever they were doing at the minute. The whole avoiding each other thing. If Armin was honest, he was doing his best to  _ not  _ avoid Eren, who, evidently, was not doing the same.

**kirschtime: i can**

**jaeger.bomb: bet**

**kasa.a: but could you take me in a fight, jean?**

**amourbraun: LMAOO N o**

**armourbraun: No he couldn’t**

**leonheart_annie: if u dont shut up nobody’s getting a ride for a week**

**sasha_420: yes ma’am**

He should text him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed this chapter! it's still mostly just set up for the real story, but things are really getting started next chapter. grandpa arlert is such a pleasure to write, i love silly old men :) tune in next time for brunch with girls, mimosas, and a side dish of drama! we're gonna have some more scout content and some interaction between eren and armin :)


	3. mimosas are for girls (and gays)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor content warning for underage drinking. i'm gonna be honest, i forgot under 21 is underaged in the states. sorry 4 being british i guess?

Armin chickened out. He’s been rolling the moment over and over again in his mind ever since: opening Eren’s so far empty chat log, letting his fingers hover over the keys, closing the chat, instead typing a message out to the group chat, hoping that Eren would reply to him. 

**arlert.armin: anyone up for brunch next week? :-)**

**arlert.armin: new place opened up near me!!**

So that’s the condensed version of the story that ends with Armin wedged in a booth with five girls. He can’t help but be a little offended that all of the ‘guys’ (he bets that’s how Eren would put it, these days) brushed off his offer of brunch. Is brunch not a manly thing..? No, Armin thinks, Ymir is probably the manliest of the whole group, and she took him up on his invite! Well, that might have something to do with her girlfriend, Historia, accepting so enthusiastically, now that he thinks about it. At least his message confirmed his theory: Eren really was avoiding him. Why else would he say no to breakfast foods?

But who cares! Armin can’t spend his time moping about just because his childhood best friend forgot all about him while he was shipped to and fro about the country with his parents. Even if said best friend somehow got drop dead gorgeous in the six years he was gone. Not that anybody had to know about. Especially when he’s surrounded by people who actually _wanted_ to enjoy his company! 

“Oh by gof,” Sasha moans, chomping down on a forkful of fluffy pancakes.

“Didn’t you order french toast with eggs benedict?” Historia asks, snapping a picture of her brunch - something trendy and vegan, Armin figures.

“Yeah, about that…” Sasha looks down, sheepishly, looking at Armin with big brown puppy dog eyes under her long lashes. “Sorry, Armin…” He looks down at his plate, and, sure enough, there’s already been a slice cut out of his stack of blueberry pancakes. He already got a picture of it when the dish arrived, and even then he was shocked at the portion size, so he isn’t mad. In fact, he’s smiling. He’s just glad Sasha is already at the stage where she doesn’t ask to share his food already. Making friends was easier than he had thought.

“Do you want me to hit her?” Mikasa mutters, opposite to him. They had taken the outer seats to prevent being squashed so much. Armin giggles, but then he catches sight of Annie lifting an arm above Sasha’s head, who is so engrossed in inhaling what’s on her plate that she doesn’t mind being squished in between the two most intimidating girls that Armin thinks he has ever met, and doesn’t notice the blonde girl next to her about to thwart her over the noggin. 

“No!” Armin reassures Mikasa hastily, who in turn shoots Annie a look, mouthing what looks to Armin like ‘ _next time_ ’. He tries not to dwell on that. He finally takes a well deserved bite out of his pancakes when- “Aaaah ymirthatismylegnothistorias.” (translation: Ymir, that is my leg, not Historia’s.) The grip on his thigh quickly loosens, then he’s given two pats to the offended area. He thinks Ymir means for them to be friendly, but they feel scary.

“Sorry about that, buddy,” Ymir chuckles. “One too many _mimosas_ ,” She sing songs, waving her glass around so that the drink sloshes dangerously in the glass. Historia doesn’t seem to notice when a drop lands on the table cloth next to her- she’s currently spluttering with wide eyes staring pointedly down at the table. Armin feels equally embarrassed at the whole ordeal.

“So that’s why you keep disappearing to the bar,” Annie says. “How are you even getting served?” She scoffs when Ymir taps the side of her nose twice, winking and licking her lips for what she seems to think is good measure, but is actually just causing everyone else at the booth to look at her with bewilderment. Except, that is, for Sasha, who seems to have adopted an expression of astonishment.

“You wanna share?” She asks, enthusiastically. She’s met with an almost unanimous chorus of _no_ s.

  
  


Even when he’s back in the car with Mikasa, Armin can’t wipe the giddy grin off of his face. He can’t remember the last time he’s had that much fun, or laughed so hard that he had to slap the table with one hand and clutch his stomach with the other. He’d spent so much time with adults for the past six years that he’s forgotten how fun just being _silly_ could be. Maybe brunch out was a luxury they couldn’t afford regularly (they had all winced when the bill arrived, although all of Ymir’s drinks and Sasha’s second meal had driven the price up more than necessary), but Armin knows this is just the first of many college days where he’ll have this much fun. 

As he approaches Mikasa’s front door, it occurs to Armin that, throughout the hour or two that he spent near cry-laughing at brunch, he didn’t think of Eren at all. That’s probably the longest amount of time he’s gone without worrying about him since he got back in Shiganshina at the beginning of the semester. Even now, walking into the Jaeger’s hallway and hearing the soft hum of the living room TV nearby, he doesn’t feel nervous. Well, any more nervous than his general baseline level of anxiety.

“Hey,” Eren calls out, and from the sudden quiet that falls over the room, Armin can guess that he’s pausing the TV. “Where have you been? There’s leftovers on the side if you-”

“I, uh, already ate.” Mikasa says, awkwardly fumbling with her scarf. “Got brunch.”

“Oh. With Armin?” Armin gets the feeling he hasn’t realised that the aforementioned boy is in the house with his adoptive sister. Now it’s his time to fidget uncomfortably. He considers putting his shoes back on and leaving.

“Yeah. With Armin,” Mikasa answers. “And Annie, Sasha, and Ymir and Historia.”

“And Armin?” Eren repeats, for some reason. 

“Yeah, and Armin. He’s here, by the way,” Mikasa dead pans, clearly over this conversation and striding confidently in the living room. She drops onto the empty couch and pats the empty seat next to her, so Armin feels forced to awkwardly trudge in a good few seconds after she’s already sat down. 

“Um, hi,” He says, once he’s sat down next to the pillar of safety that is Mikasa.

“Hey,” Eren replies, and then, with something between a laugh and a sneer, “‘Sup?”, which makes Armin try his best to not pout. In the old days, he definitely would have gone for it, then Eren would smile softly, say _hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it,_ and sling an arm around Armin’s shoulder until he smiled again. But that’s in the past. Now he just chuckles stiffly. He can practically hear Mikasa rolling her eyes.

“You missed out on brunch,” Mikasa says, dismissively. “Ymir could’ve got you some mimosas. You love fruity shit like that-”

“No I don’t.” Aggressively, Eren interrupts her. He’s looking at Armin, trying to catch his eyes, and Armin is reluctant to comply. As if he wasn’t red enough from the painfully uncomfortable situation, Eren’s surly gaze is bringing a distinctly pink hew to Armin’s cheeks. He prays nobody notices. “I don’t,” Eren reassures Armin, once their eyes have met for more than a few seconds and he’s sure he’s paying attention. Armin isn’t sure Eren has even looked at him properly since he got back until now. Suddenly angry, he scoffs.

“Is your masculinity really so fragile that you don’t want anyone to know you like champagne and _orange juice_ -”

“It’s nothing to do with that!” Eren snaps, folding his arms. It is, of course. “Just- god, what do you even know, Armin? Cause I don’t remember you being here for the last six years. And I don’t remember you being so- such a-”

“Go on, say it,” Armin dares him, folding arms. Eren casts his angry glare away, looking at the floor. 

Mikasa clears her throat.

“I don’t think we’re thinking straight. Armin had some mimosas-”

“I didn’t. I drove.”

“Shut up!” Mikasa hisses, then, “Nobody’s too manly for mimosas.”

“Right,” Eren replies, voice gruff. He wrinkles his nose. It isn’t missed by Armin, that was a classic. One of the tell-tale signs that Eren was calming down. When they were kids, he would normally have cried before he did that. Yet he was the cry baby. Actually, that was a pretty fair judgement. Mikasa was the only one who didn’t cry at least every week. Eren stands up. “Gonna head out. See ya, Mikasa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed this chapter! a couple of the next few chapters were originally just one super long one, but i decided to split them up a little bit, so if the endings seem a little bit abrupt, that's why.  
> thank you for reading! i had fun writing the girls this chapter, looking forward to more scout content :) 
> 
> next time: more grandpa arlert, historia's instagram, and will armin finally be able to text eren?


	4. she's an INFLUENCER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some more usernames just in case: queenhistoria as historia; ugotymired as ymir; bertyhoo as bertholdt; hitch__ as hitch.  
> hope you enjoy :)

It seems like an eternity has passed before Armin hears the click of the front door closing. Finally, it happens- well, it’s more of a slam, but what’s to be expected from Eren if it isn’t violence- and Mikasa immediately turns to look at him. 

If Armin had thought that Eren’s glare was scary, he was wrong. Looking into Mikasa’s glower makes him think he might pee his pants a little bit. 

“What the hell was that?” Mikasa demands.

Wistfully, Armin remembers a time when Mikasa and Eren’s front room was a sanctuary of peace. There was a first gen game console, second hand, that made an alarming whirring sound and burned the shit out of your hand if you tried to touch it, but that was all oddly comfortable due to it’s familiar nature. The couches were plush, and you were allowed to put your feet on them if you wanted, unlike at Armin’s house, where such behaviour would earn you a scolding. Carla had knitted throws and fat pillows with hand embroidered cases, all home made, of course, that Armin, Mikasa and Eren would snuggle under together, watching an old disney movie. It was peaceful. Armin wishes it was still like that right about now.

“Ask him! I’m not the one getting defensive over a cocktail!” Armin cries in defense, drawing his knees up to his chest and wishing he would shrink in on himself. “I mean, it’s a mimosa, really-”

“Drop the mimosas already, Armin,” She bites. She starts pulling at a strand of her short, dark hair, and her thin eyebrows are knitted together. Armin has never had a goth get angry at him before. It makes it that much scarier. He refrains from mentioning that she was the one who brought them up in the first place, because he thinks saying the words ‘you started it’ would get him punched. In the throat. “Okay-” Mikasa starts again, smoothing out the angry lines on her forehead. “Okay. You’re not entirely to blame, yeah. But-” She sighs. “Just, _try_? I know he’s being difficult.”

“Yeah, that’s one word for it,” Armin scoffs, darkly. Mikasa shoots him a look, and he hopes his nervous gulp isn’t too obvious.

“Look, the three of us used to be best friends. I think if the two of you tried then it could go back to how it was. I really do, Armin. I want my brother and my best friend to get along again. Can you try?” Mikasa has lightened up a little, batting her long eyelashes. He thinks they’re the kind you stick on.

Nodding in reply, Armin offers a calmer smile. Mikasa offers one back; it makes her eyes shine.

“Good. I’ll talk to him later.”

Unwilling to risk another run in with Eren, Armin decides to clear off much earlier than usual. Once he arrives home, he stays in his car, parked up in the driveway, for longer than necessary, head pressed to the steering wheel. Nothing can ever prepare him for facing the world again, he decides. He should probably start preparing to adjust to living in his car, but then grandpa Leon raps on the windscreen.

“Shit!” Armin yelps, flinging his head upwards too suddenly. Simultaneously, he grabs the back of his neck with a cry of pain (he’s pretty sure that this is what whiplash feels like) and clamps the other over his mouth. “I mean, oops..?” A few moments later, Armin realises, with the help of his grandpa’s unimpressed expression, that he’s a grown adult now. “Shit.” He says, this time with conviction.

All the same, Armin doesn’t feel his usual self for the rest of the evening. He cleans in silence rather than to background music, which consequently means he doesn’t use the feather duster as a microphone or the mop as a dance partner. He scrubs at the plates viscously, taking out his frustrations spurred on by flashing images of Eren’s stupid gorgeous eyes and stupid handsome face and stupid sexy hair on the plates. Frustration only winds his gut tighter when he has to gently place them on the drying rack instead of slamming them down as he would like to. Vigorously, he yanks dry bed sheets out of the dryer and shakes them energetically, then stomps upstairs to put them back on his bed. By the time he’s finished cleaning the whole house, top to bottom, he’s had time to get worked up, get anxious, calm down, and get angry all over again. 

Eventually, when he’s flung himself on to his freshly made bed with folded arms and scowled at the ceiling for a few minutes, he starts calming down for what feels like the billionth time that day. Maybe this is just a lifetime's worth of anger coming out at once? He’s never really been one to get mad at people - upset, disappointed, sure, but mad? Never. Except for now, that is, and over what? An argument about mimosas? 

Okay, so Armin knows it isn’t really about the mimosas. Well, maybe just a little bit. As silly as it sounds, Armin had felt a little hurt by Eren denying the apparently ‘embarrassing’ fact that he liked them. It was the littlest, tiny thing- so why would he just outright lie about it? To Armin, it felt like confirmation that they weren’t friends. He still wanted to know every little thing about Eren, from what he drank to what show he was watching to whatever new little quirks he had developed while Armin was gone, but Eren had been avoiding him so damn much that Armin hardly knew _anything_ about him.

He thinks back to Mikasa’s plea. _Try._ Well, what if he was trying, and that just wasn’t good enough for Eren? What if he just wasn’t good enough? The thought alone was enough to make him want to wallow in his room for the rest of his life; he might as well drop out of college and move back in with his parents and get shipped around aimlessly for the rest of his life, at this rate. _Bzz._ He should’ve - _bzz_ \- known it was a mistake to - _bzz_ \- come back to Shiganshina in the first place. _Bzz._

Armin groans aloud in frustration, finally grabbing his phone that had been intrusively buzzing non stop for the last few moments.

**queenhistoria tagged you in a post**

**bertyhoo. , ugotymired , hitch__ , and 13 others liked a post you were tagged in**

**ugotymired and 10 others commented on a post you were tagged in**

The intensity of Armin’s emotions immediately subside, eyebrows instead furrowing with confusion as he clicks on to the notifications. It’s a set of photos taken from today at brunch.

**queenhistoria** **had a great time with everyone today at @/sweetmapleshack for** **brunch!💕🌸**

Armin is a little shocked and very touched that he made the cut. The first picture shows Historia’s avocado and vegan bacon on toast, adorned with some cute filters and stickers, which leads Armin to make a mental note reminding him to ask her what photo editing apps she uses. Next is a photo that Ymir had bullied the waiter into taking of the whole group (“It’s for my girlfriend’s instagram. She’s an _influencer_ ,” She had said proudly, to a waiter who looked like he wasn’t being paid enough to deal with an intoxicated Ymir). Armin tugs a strand of his hair and looks self consciously at himself in the picture. The girls make him look underdressed. He can’t wait to make Mikasa take him clothes shopping.

Swiping through the rest of the photos with a smile, Armin can’t believe he had gotten himself so upset up earlier, when just this morning he had been having the time of his life. There’s a candid shot of him and Mikasa laughing, grasping hands across the table from each other, mouths caught wide open, probably gasping for breath from cackling too hard. The last photo, of course, is the most adorable selfie of Historia and Ymir, the taller of the two leaning down to kiss her blonde girlfriend on the cheek. Smiling wistfully and secretly hoping for a relationship like that, he goes to check the comments.

**ugotymired: STUNNING. YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL EVERYONE LOOK AT MY GF AWOOOOOOGA IM DYING UR SO HOT IM DEAD**

**bertyhoo.: Looks great!! take me next time!!**

  * **armourbraun: whole group trip?!**


  * **queenhistoria: aaa you got it ! <3**



**hitch__: @leonhart_annie LMFAOO WHY DOES UR FACE LOOK LIKE THAT IN THE FIRST PIC**

  * **leonhart_annie: die :)**



**sasha_420: omg looking at all that food again makes me hungry dhbskdjb**

**kasa.a: great time**

  * **kirschtime: haha u look gr8 in these pics mikasa hmu ;)**



**conman_: that FOOD looks good omfg**

**jaeger.bomb: looking good;)**

Armin holds his phone to his chest and sits up, ignoring the flood of likes and comments coming in from Historia’s other followers. He feels reinvigorated. He wasn’t going to let any stupid little argument get him down. So what if Eren didn’t like mimosas? He had other friends, now. But that didn’t mean he was going to stop trying with Eren. Armin was many things, but a quitter wasn’t one. He would never have come back to Shiganshina if he wasn’t determined to try.

It isn’t hard to find Eren’s empty chat log. After all, he was still the only one with a ‘:-)’ in his whole contact list. His fingers hover nervously over the keyboard, but Armin physically shakes away his usual jitters and types, checks, refuses to delete any of what he’s just written, sends.

**to: eren :-)**

**i’m sorry about today. start over? :-)**

Sending… sending….. delivered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! i hope you enjoyed this chapter! you know, i don't think i ever mentioned grandpa arlert's name in chapter 2, which is kind of stupid of me? so just in case i didn't, i settled on naming him Leon, it being a pretty typical german name and all. i'd also like to thank everyone for their kudos, bookmarks and kind comments! they really mean the world to me, i'm always so glad to hear what you guys think! <3
> 
> next chapter, join me for more grandpa, armin's cooking, and an uncomfortable flashback!


	5. can't old people have fun?

So, maybe Armin’s burst of confidence was short lived. In other words, it leaves just as suddenly as it had arrived. Armin plummets back into his natural state of perpetual anxiety, just magnified tenfold. 

Patience has always been a quality that Armin had valued in himself. Throughout the years, it’s gotten him through some difficult classes, helped him solve some long, drawn out problems and, best of all, it makes him a great tutor. Probably just a few months before he left, actually, he remembers going through an algebra problem with Eren.

It was that same house, same kitchen, same dining table, except Armin was still familiar enough with the surroundings to not take the wonky chair. It was the very breaking point of spring and summer, where you had to wear a sweater on the way to school but if you still had it on by lunch period you would start getting sweaty. Armin hated that weather, still does. It basically meant two different outfits, whereas in the Winter he only had to worry about what sweater he was going to wear, and in Summer he only had to worry about a t-shirt. But he couldn’t deny how much he loved those hazy afternoons once school was out.

The orange sun streamed through the kitchen window. The lines on the panes cast shadows onto Eren’s squinting face, Mikasa had long finished the homework once Armin had explained the formula, but Eren still had to take it one at a time. They were near the end, and had been going through this particular worksheet for at least an hour, but Armin didn’t mind. His patience never wore thin when it came to Eren, whose face was currently screwed up in frustration. Eren clearly didn’t share his patience when it came to math. He slammed his pencil against the table, Armin remembers, looking so angry at the piece of paper that he had looked as if he might have cried.

What happened next is the kind of thing that Armin’s brain springs on him when he’s trying to sleep. Like a ‘ _hey! You haven’t thought about this super embarrassing moment in a while! Just thought you should know!’_ kind of moment, every now and then when he’s just about to drift off.

Little, naïve, baby Armin had reached out, covering Eren’s clenched fist with his own hand. In his past self’s defence, the two of them were probably more physically affectionate than most guy best friends. They would always share the bed when they had sleepovers, or rest a head on the others shoulder if they were feeling tired or weary from the world. To be completely honest, Armin hadn’t realised it wasn’t normal until some kids at school had called them gay for it, and even then he had to ask Eren what gay was, and then why that was a bad thing. Eren couldn’t answer his last question. Whether that was because he didn’t know or he had to go and tend to his knuckles that he had scraped on the kids’ face was anyone’s guess.

Eren’s hand was hot. His tanned skin felt electric under Armin’s pale fingers. That was a weird and.. Interesting, Armin wants to say, development, but mostly it was just terrifying. Armin - they must have been, what? Twelve, thirteen? - had flushed a little, staring with his mouth hanging open at their intertwined hands for a few moments, before he noticed Eren gritting his teeth. When he went to meet his eyes, Eren had turned away, yanking his hand out from under Armin’s for good measure.

It took another half hour to finish the math homework. Armin didn’t mind. He was patient.

But, yes, patience. He had lots of it, normally, but apparently not when it came to waiting for text replies from certain boys with devastating jaw lines and dazzling eyes and hair that looks better than sex when it’s pulled back into a messy bun. Not that he’d know anything about the sex part. But you get the idea.

Anyway, the point is, when Eren doesn’t reply to his apology straight away, Armin starts to stress. Worse yet, he’s already done all the chores that he normally does to get rid of his nervous energy. After a few laps of pacing around his bedroom, he eventually decides to start on Grandpa Leon’s dinner early.

“Grandpa!” Armin calls, loudly (the old man’s hearing isn’t all it used to be) from his spot in front of the kitchen sink. “Come see what you want to eat!” He’s scrubbing in between his fingers still when he hears the spritely shuffle of slippers paired with a mischievous giggle come into the kitchen. “You sound like you’re up to no good again,” Armin remarks, drying his hands on a fresh dishcloth.

“A man’s not allowed to have fun in his own house anymore?” His Grandpa asks in a mock stern voice. Armin offers him only an amused hum in response, then nods towards the ingredients that he’s laid out on the counter. Leon rubs his hands together, gleeful, as he checks out selection, but he starts pulling faces at all the vegetables. Armin can only bring himself to huff.

“I was thinking some kind of risotto? Or I saw some lentils in the back of the cupboard..” Armin mentions, lining up his chopping board and knives and drying up some pans that hadn’t been left long enough on the rack to dry completely. It’s a pretty good system, actually: his grandpa passes him whatever vegetables he wants, Armin chooses some more that will go because he never chooses a good amount without prompting, then Armin cooks something up that his grandpa eats without complaining. It helps that he enjoys cooking.

Especially today. Being able to focus on something other than his phone screen is a blessing. While he has to pay close attention to how he’s chopping onions, peppers and the like, his brain has little opportunity to worry about the reply he’s waiting for. It isn’t sifting through the list of possible responses maniacally, never really focussing on just one but rather screaming at least four different prospects at him all at once. Cooking is good, it’s easy, and it’s methodical. There’s a recipe, and it’s as simple as just following it word for word. (Well, except for when it came to seasoning. All of these old people cooking books Armin had picked up from a charity shop when he realised his grandpa had been living on frozen meals seemed to think age meant you lost your taste buds, they were that bland).

The only issue is, it only takes up about the next fifty minutes of his time. Then it’s back to facing the world again.

He eats with his grandpa. The risotto isn’t anything particularly special, but none of them complain. In fact, they eat in near silence, in their respective armchairs. There’s a show on the TV - Armin thinks it probably dates back to the 80s - but his brain feels so foggy with worry that he can barely make out the words that the people are saying, even with the obnoxiously loud volume and subtitles that are there for his grandpa’s sake. He spends too long chewing every mouthful, and even then struggles to swallow. 

He’s happy to have a little more washing up to do. This time he spends extra time drying everything up and putting everything back in its place. He’s just trudged through the living room and is about to go up the stairs when his grandpa calls out to him.

“Armin. Everything alright, kiddo?”

Armin takes his foot from the first step, looks up to the ceiling and mouths a swear word, screwing his face up. To be honest, no, approximately nothing is alright. Well, maybe that’s a tad dramatic. Everything about Eren is not alright. Everything else just seemed so bad because of that minor fact. Turning back to face his grandpa, Armin tries to paint a smile on his face. From the look on his grandpa’s face, it isn’t as convincing as he had hoped.

“Let me guess. Boy troubles?”

Armin splutters.

“Grandpa, I’m not sure you know what that means-”

“Of course I do! Love struggles! Ah, to be young and in love… so what is it? Has he broken your heart? Well, I suppose I haven’t seen a fella around… Turned you down then?”

The old man, reclining in his armchair with his eyes closed in a wistful expression, is blind to Armin’s current state, blushing furiously in the doorway. He opens his mouth to talk, but is rendered physically speechless, mouth gaping like a goldfish. Eventually, he finds his voice.

“I’m not- I don’t like boys, I’m not..”

“The word’s ‘gay’, Armin. And, well, sure you are!”

“I-” Armin is staring at the floor now, eyes wide and stomach churning. He hopes he can keep his risotto down. “Well. Maybe.” His voice is small, scared.

“Definitely,” His grandpa concludes, pushing his legs in to assume an upright position in his chair. “Or you and that Mikasa girl would be a couple by now, I’m sure of it. So, who’s the lucky fella?”

“Well, it’s still not exactly boy trouble, if you must know,” He huffs, leaning against the door frame and twiddling his thumbs for the sake of doing something. “Just a friend. We had a bit of a.. Fight, I guess.”

“Ahh, just a _friend._ ” He winks. “I see.”

“Oh my god, Grandpa, I swear-” He winks again, making a nudging action with his shoulder despite being nowhere near one another. “I’ll start hiding your old people medicine-” The harassment continues. “That’s it!” Armin cries, throwing his arms up as he sprints up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not entirely happy with this chapter - it feels a little clumsy! it's pretty much just filler, so sorry about that! i promise next update is much more interesting :) hope you enjoyed nonetheless <333
> 
> join me next time for armin's nice pants, eren's even nicer pants (read: booty shorts), and The Boys™


	6. the nice pants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> username recap: kirschtime as jean ; conman_ as connie ; queenhistoria as (you'll never guess) historia ; ugotymired as ymir ; leonhart_annie as annie  
> you know i don't think those needed explaining but better safe than sorry!

_ Beep, beep, beep. _

Armin bolts into an upright position, seizing his phone from the bedside table as soon as he hears it. He can’t even remember deciding to go to sleep- in fact, the last thing he  _ does _ remember is waiting up for a response from Eren. Armin quickly thumbs his alarm off, checking his lockscreen. Disappointingly, there’s no new messages from Eren. 

No time to mope. He has a morning lecture on Mondays, and he’s just realised that he’s in dire need of a shower, as he has just discovered while stretching his sleep-weary body out that he is wearing the same thing from last night. It’s all stiff and sticky. He doesn’t want to think about it much, so he prioritises a shower before anything else, hoping a thorough scrub will wake him up and wash the residue of yesterday's emotions away.

He feels marginally better afterwards, even managing his usual routine of singing quietly along to his playlist in the mirror while he brushes his teeth and straightens his hair. Then it’s back to his room to pick something out from his wardrobe, eventually settling exclusively for items that one of the girls had complemented, totally not (read: totally) in the hopes that if Eren happened to see him at any point today, he would also like the cord trousers and grandpa’s old sweater vest that he eventually chose. Then, just in case he didn’t accidentally run into him, he snaps a quick mirror selfie to post to both his snapchat and instagram stories. Well, by quick, he means he spends five minutes that should’ve been spent making breakfast, taking them, and then another minute wondering how Historia and Jean made them seem so effortless. He’d have to ask.

As a result of his selfie struggles, Armin is left dashing out the door with two bananas shoved in his bag, thankful that he’s always had the sense to pack his bag the night before. He’s out of the door at his usual time, but still feels a little on edge that he’ll be late to pick up Mikasa. He isn’t, of course. He’s Armin Arlert. He’ll do whatever it takes to be on time. Even if that means having Mikasa feed him a banana as he adjusts his rearview mirror and sets the car to reverse. Even if it means that Eren, who is taking out a trash bag in nothing but the most devilishly tiny pair of athletic shorts in the middle of fucking December, walks out of his house to witness this scene. They  _ have  _ to be women’s, Armin muses, inspecting the way that the fabric clings to his sculpted, muscular thighs. Definitely.

Rudely, he is dragged out of his stream of thought when Mikasa awkwardly manoeuvres her feeding arm, causing the previously forgotten banana to hit the back of Armin’s throat. It’s as if Armin can see this chain of events from above; he feels as though he is transcending his physical form to watch himself, lit up by the artificial orange glow of the overhead interior lights, as an unnecessary length of the banana that he is being fed disappears in his mouth. Thankfully, Armin manages to secure his teeth firmly around the fruit and prevent a full-blown choking fit. Nobody wants to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre before 9am on a Monday. From the looks on the three faces, the innuendo has been lost to approximately no-one. Good to know.

Armin frantically chews his mouthful, attempting a wave that seems totally normal. Eren’s eyes are still flicking in between Armin and Mikasa, seemingly terrified. He shows his hand quickly in response before retreating into the house, trash bag still in hand.

“Oof. That was rough, buddy,” Mikasa says, patting Armin’s shoulder. She’s giving him this sympathetic smile, like they’re kids and he’s just got his hair tugged again. Of course, he’s a little upset at that whole interaction, but one thing keeps nagging at the back of his mind, bothering him more than anything else.

“He didn’t even see my pants. I spent ages choosing this outfit,” Armin says sadly, with a pout.

  
  


As usual, Armin’s lecture wasn’t too difficult- nothing he hadn’t prepared for, anyway. It was the last week before the holiday break, so things were probably easier than ever. He and Mikasa usually stayed on campus after their morning lecture. A pretty big group of them usually gather in one of the campus’ dining halls, having either had a morning lecture or arrived early for an afternoon one. The buzz of easy, last week lessons has obviously rubbed off on everyone, because when they arrive at the table, they’re greeted by a hushed, excited conversation. And a wolf whistle, apparently, from Reiner.

“Whit woo, Arlert! Lookin’ good! What’s the special occasion?” He crows.

Armin groans, slinging his bag down and throwing himself in the free seat next to Reiner. Mikasa takes the one next to him, as usual. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Uh oh. Boy trouble?” 

“You sound just like my grandpa!” Armin whines, pressing his head to the table. Then, woefully, “He didn’t even get to see my pants.”

“That’s a shame. They’re real nice pants, Armin,” Bertholdt chimes in, leaning away from the rest of the group’s conversation.

“Real nice.” Reiner repeats, winking. He’s a nice guy and all, don’t get him wrong, but Armin can’t quite figure him out. For one, there’s the comments like that, but there’s also the whole football thing. And he majors in business, so Armin that’s 2-1 to the straight team. But then he and Bertholdt are so affectionate sometimes? Reiner’s kind of just like that with everyone - he recalls getting a kiss on the cheek when they first met - but Bertholdt is a little more subdued in that aspect, but was often found draped over Reiner’s shoulders.

“Who didn’t see your pants? That sucks, those pants are so nice!” Marco has slid into the conversation now. Marco is less confusing, and Armin is grateful for that. He’s just so sincere, it’s comforting. He once saw him slide a tampon to Annie under the table, even though Armin was pretty sure he had no need to carry one for himself. He was just that nice of a guy.

“A boy,” Bertholdt answers, with a sympathetic frown that makes his left cheek look squished and his eyebrows sag a little.

“There’s a boy in Armin’s pants?” Jean exclaims, “Connie, pay up.” It’s enough to finally make Armin sit up straight again as the smaller man makes a pained noise as he slams a five dollar bill on to the table in front of Jean. Mikasa is trying to hide the fact that she’s chuckling behind her scarf.

“No!” Armin cries. “Wait, pay up?”

“Don’t worry about that, Armin,” Jean says, soothingly. “We’ve got something to cheer you up. An official invite to the party of the year.”

“Oh, yeah,” Connie continues. Armin can’t help but think they’ve rehearsed this. It sounds vaguely sales-pitch like. “More like the party of the century. There’ll be booze, chicks, snacks, oh, sorry, guys for you too, Armin, and more at the great Springer- ow!” Jean elbows him. “Yet to be named bash!”

“It’s my party,” Jean interjects quickly. “At my house. It’s exclusive, okay? So don’t go showing your invite off to anyone else. Oh, except your boyfriend. He can come.”

“I don’t  _ have _ a boyfriend!” Armin exclaims, much to Connie’s delight, who is already trying to steal his five dollars back. “No, Connie, I’m still gay. I mean, come on, that was a bad bet on your part. Look at me.” There’s a general consensus of head nodding.

“No straight man could pull off those pants quite like Armin,” Mikasa dead pans. Her voice is quiet, but her general presence is so commanding that everyone falls silent long enough to hear what she says, before laughing or making noises of agreement.

  
  


Lunch with friends was a welcome distraction from the current Eren situation. He doesn’t even check his phone until he gets back to Mikasa’s house later that afternoon. They’re huddled next to each other on the couch, laughing at bad reality TV for fun, but Armin is secretly getting really invested in this one woman’s emotional journey to self acceptance. He checks his instagram first. Reiner, Bertholdt and Marco have all replied to his story to tell him they like his pants again. Jean has messaged the groupchat with the details of the Holidays party, which Armin dutifully plugs into his calendar app.

**kirschtime: bring booze pls**

**kirschtime: and don’t break anything**

**conman_: everyone tell armin he has nice pants or else**

**queenhistoria: Armin i love your pants!!**

**ugotymired: nice nerd pants**

**ugotymired: nvm i actually looked theyre nice pants send me a link**

**leonhart_annie: he has nice pants or else**

With a sigh, Armin decided to let himself check his texts just once more. If there’s still no reply from Eren, then he can stop trying. Heart racing, he opens the app. For some reason, he got a lot of promo codes from local takeaways today. He scans the list of unread messages, ready to give up, but there, at the bottom-

**from: eren :-)**

**yeah, definitely. im sorry too. and abt this morning lol. hope u enjoyed ur breakfast ;)**

**ur going to the party, right?**

  
  


**to: eren :-)**

**yeah i especially enjoyed the part where i choked on it in front of not one but two of my childhood best friends 👍**

**yeah of course**

  
  


**from: eren :-)**

**lolll i enjoyed that bit too so glad we can agree**

**sick. cant wait. catch u then ;)**

“Mikasa?” Armin asks. She looks away from the Tv, where one woman is screaming at another, who is clearly trying not to cry. Armin kind of wishes he had been paying more attention now.

“Hmm?”

“You have to take me shopping before that party.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell armin his pants are nice or else >:( really enjoyed writing this chapter! eren in women's athletic shorts will be my dying legacy and i'm okay with that. (not that clothes should be gendered of course!). the next few chapters are gonna be a little longer but i couldn't really figure out a natural place to split them up in to separate parts. i hope you won't mind!
> 
> tune in next time for thrift shops, food courts, and sasha's insatiable appetite :)


	7. alexa play thrift shop by macklemore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very minor content warning for underage drinking this chapter :)

Mikasa has him cornered in a changing room a few days later. She’s always been intimidating, Armin knows this. Starting fights like Eren wasn’t quite impressive, but ending them? Now that was some scary stuff. Mikasa would swoop in out of nowhere with a stoic face, a drop kick waiting to be perfectly aimed at an unsuspecting head and a punch ready to be thrown at someone’s nose, and that would be that. Nobody ever tried it with Eren twice, because they were scared shitless of Mikasa. Apart from Jean, these days, but Armin thinks that he just enjoys getting slapped by her. 

Armin thinks she’s even scarier now, in steel toed platform boots that would really hurt should they make contact with soft body part and rings on practically every knuckle. Not that Mikasa is trying to fight him right now. She’s just trying to strip him. On second thoughts, that’s probably just as bad as being attacked.

“If you want me to try it on, you have to get out- ah!” Armin squawks, landing on the bench with only his legs to use in defence now.

“You won’t layer it properly,” Mikasa growls. The fluorescent overhead lights shine bright, flickering white light onto her made-up face as she scrambles for Armin’s belt. The black lipstick makes her snarl look particularly menacing today. Armin saves that compliment for when Mikasa feels down: he has a feeling she would really appreciate that sentiment. 

“Fine! Fine, but don’t stare-”

“You saw what Eren wears around the house. Nothing will shock me.” She puts her hands on her hips in triumph for a moment, then turns to see all the items of clothing that are hanging up on the changing room wall. It’s a pretty big selection of mainly neutrals. Normally, he would worry a little bit about the cost, but Mikasa had assured him before they arrived that this thrift shop normally has nice pieces going pretty cheap. Mikasa rifles through them, sorting articles into piles. “Outfit one,” She instructs, handing him a mass of hangers without looking at him.

Armin hums in thanks, pulling on a pair of checkered trousers and a polo shirt. This is normally where he would stop, but Mikasa, who has turned to inspect him, is now trying to pull a brown sweater vest over his head, then tugs the sleeves of an oversized corduroy jacket over his arms. 

“Hmm. You could get away with a long sleeve under the polo shirt still.” She says, surveying him with a gaze that rakes his body from top to bottom. Armin thinks that this must be what cadets in the military feel like when inspections come around. He shuffles uncomfortably from foot to foot. “But it looks great. Check it out,” She says, turning him towards the mirror, then wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

He’s shocked to find that she’s not wrong. The way the pants skim his legs, rolled up at the ankle, flatters the looser fit of the jacket. Armin turns a few degrees to the left, straightening his leg out to get a good side view. He lets the jacket slip off of his shoulder with a soft smile. He looks  _ good _ . 

“I like it,” Armin grins. Mikasa squeezes him, restricting his breathing for a few moments with just how tight it is.

“I knew you would. Come on, try on the rest.”

Back in Armin’s car, Mikasa opens a series of snapchats from Sasha.

“Looks like everyone’s at the mall today. Since we’re on our way, you want to meet up with them?” Armin nods with a smile, over the quiet music. It’s a local radio station, playing obnoxious pop songs, because the CD player has been jammed for a few months and Armin is a little nervous to get it fixed as he doesn’t want a tough mechanic finding the offending The Greatest Hits of Dolly Parton disc that jammed it in the first place. “Like, really, everyone.” Mikasa repeats.

“That’s fine. I’m not scared of them,” Armin says, drumming his fingertips across the steering wheel nearly in time to the music. It’s nearly being drowned out by the spluttering engine as Armin forces the car uphill, foot pressed hard down on the gas. “Anymore,” He corrects himself after a moment of thought.

“They still might,” Mikasa says, thoughtfully. “You haven’t been to a party with Sasha and Connie yet. It’s like they want you to get alcohol poisoning.” There’s a few minutes of quiet where Armin nervously side eyes Mikasa and chews on his lip. At first glance, she doesn’t acknowledge it, but after a few more side-eye looks, she catches on. When Armin sneaks a peek at her, he can practically see her going through the reasons that Armin might be anxious in her head. She was never quite as innately perceptive as Eren, who would instinctively know what Armin was worried about and how to fix it, but she made up for it in will power. “Oh my god,” She murmurs, as Armin is reversing into a spot between a truck he recognises and Ymir’s and an expensive looking car.

“What?”

“You’ve never been to a party before.”

“What?!” Armin says squeakily, red blush already climbing up his neck and cheeks. “I so have.”

“Liar! I know for a fact you had no friends in highschool!” Armin frowns. That hurt a little bit, can’t lie. “Sorry,” Mikasa hastily adds, looking guilty. “Armin, it’s fine. It’s not as big a deal as Connie and Sasha are making it seem. You’ve drank before?”

He shrugs. “Well, yeah. Like, wine and stuff.”  _ With my mom and dad,  _ he doesn’t add.

“Well, there you go. And you don’t even  _ have _ to drink. I’ll make sure Sasha and Connie don’t force you. Oh, and if you do want to drink, you can come to the store to pick what you want to drink from the corner store with me.” Mikasa is always level headed, steady, especially in her explanations and reassurance. She’s the go-to for straight advice. Somehow, when she tells things as they are, she doesn’t seem blunt in a way that makes you think  _ what an asshole _ , but more of a way that makes you think of her with even more respect.

“How do you even get served?” Armin asks. “I would probably just blow your cover.”

Mikasa laughs. She has a pretty laugh, Armin thinks. It’s sweet and high, not at all what you would expect from just looking at her. It’s like a bird song. “It’s not a secret mission, Armin,” She smiles, “We know the guy who works there. You remember Hannes?”

“Oh, yeah! Didn’t Eren try to fight him once?”

“Yeah,” Mikasa sighs. “And it was four times, actually.”

  
  
They meet everyone in the food court. It isn’t hard to find them, because they’re crowded around one, long table, and everyone is yelling. Not much change. Armin and Mikasa look a little embarrassed to be associated with them.

“ARMIN,” Sasha cries when she spots him. “When he winces, she gets the point and quiets down a little bit. That’s surprisingly considerate of her, Armin thinks. “Armin, please, stop them from slandering the Blouse name,” She begs, reaching across the table as if to grab her hand.

“Don’t listen to her, Armin,” Connie barges in, swiftly smacking Sasha’s hand away. 

“What’s happening?” Once he realises there’s no way around it, Armin asks the obvious question.

“She ate a bag of chips from the trash,” Annie says, not looking up from her phone. Mikasa has settled down next to her, and is doing the exact same thing. He wishes he could join them in ignoring whatever this is.

“They were  _ sealed _ ,” Sasha insists. “Who throws away perfectly good sweet chilli chips?!”

“Who eats trash snacks?!” Jean quips back. He looks a little queasy. Armin takes in a deep breath. He can’t believe he’s about to do this.

“I mean… If they were sealed then, yeah. They were fine.” Uproar. “Look, I’m not saying it was good! But if she washed her hands before she ate them, then, like, it’s not like they were contaminated.” It’s suddenly much quieter. Everyone slowly turns their heads to look at Sasha, who is looking at the table. It does nothing to hide the guilt that’s eating away at her. Shamefully, she stares at the offending hands. Unwashed, he guesses he should add. Unwashed, offending hands. “Oh my god,” Armin says, voice somewhere between disappointment and sadness. “Sasha…”

Marco is the one who eventually reinstates peace amongst the group, by making Sasha apologise for eating trash chips and then making everyone else apologise to Sasha for yelling at her for eating trash chips. 

“Anyway,” Historia changes the subject with breezy ease, “Armin, where were you and Mikasa?” Suddenly, nine pairs of eyes are on Armin - Annie and Mikasa are still disinterested in whatever shenanigans may be occurring at the rest of the table, and are engaging in a whispered conversation - and he flushes a little under the attention.

“Oh,” He says, fidgeting with his fingers. “Just shopping.”

“More nice pants, I hope,” Smirks Reiner. Bertholdt smacks his arms.

“Those  _ were _ nice pants, actually, Armin.” He had been avoiding looking directly at Eren until now, but when he addresses him directly, Armin feels it would be rude to ignore him.

“Oh! Um, thanks!” He’s blushing. “Yours too. Nice.. pants. Yeah.” Is he nodding too hard right now? Can you even nod too hard? There’s a prolonged moment where Armin makes direct eye contact with Eren, until he realises that everyone else, possibly for the first time since he’s met them, have fallen silent and are all staring directly at him. “Anyway… food courts, am I right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok gang, who are we siding with over the trash chips argument?  
> hope you enjoyed this chapter! the next few parts were originally one very long, very dialogue heavy chapter so i split it up a little bit for convenience when reading - so if they seem a bit short or disjointed, that'll be why. hope nobody minds! i absolutely ADORE writing these guys as a group - it's some well needed relief from watching series 4!
> 
> join us next time for everyone's favourite lesbians, eren's questionable hygiene, and historia's mission for a makeover!


	8. i bet he doesn't wash his ass

“Armin,” Historia whispers. She had huddled closer to him after the awkward silence that followed his food court commentary, which Marco had graciously broken by offering to go and order everyone’s lunch. Now that everyone has broken off into individual conversations again, Historia has leaned in. Ymir is giving him a nasty scowl. “Could you possibly, by any chance, have a crush?” She smiles sweetly at him, then hastily adds, “On anyone at all in the world?”

“No,” Armin answers, quickly. He doesn’t. He definitely doesn’t. Ymir scoffs, clearly not buying it.

“Yeah, right. That’s why you were blushing and stuttering over Jaeger. He probably doesn’t was his ass, you know,” She interjects, resting her chin on her hand. Armin thinks she has the most amazing complexion; her skin looks softer than a baby’s, completely clear aside from the mass of freckles that decorate her dark face. He thinks he would get put into a headlock if he complimented her. He might risk it one day. Can’t be any scarier than Mikasa or Annie.

“He does wash his ass!” Armin jumps immediately to Eren’s face, as if they were ten again.

“How do you know? You seen his ass? I bet it’s dirty as hell-”

“Shut up about Eren’s ass!” Armin hisses. “What if he hears? Besides, I’m just shy!”

“Hmm,” Historia is too polite to outright challenge him, but she still has sneaky ways of going about it. “But Eren is rather handsome. I think that’s why he’s so popular with the ladies, right, Ymir?” Armin gulps, but refuses to fall into this trap.

“I don’t like him. I mean, I do, but as a friend. And, yes, I agree, he is.. Handsome, but that doesn’t mean I have a  _ crush _ on him,” Armin reasons.

“No, I agree, thinking he’s handsome doesn’t mean that you have a crush on him,” Historia begins. Ymir appears to have lost interest in the conversation, so she speaks even quieter now, making the conversation feel a lot more private. “But if he makes your heart race and gives you butterflies in your tummy-” Armin looks like he’s about to interject, but Historia doesn’t let him get a word in- “which, by the looks of it, he does… Maybe that means you don’t just see him as a friend anymore. Or maybe you’re right.” It doesn’t take a genius to see that she doesn’t think that that’s the case at all.

Armin sits quietly for a minute, pressing his lips into a tight line in thought. Armin’s chest and tummy did always feel like they were set on edge, ready to explode when he was around Eren, but he’s always just put that down to the weird tension between them since they got back. But that’s gone, now, right? Things weren’t completely back to normal, but the situation has obviously improved from what it was, so why did Eren still make him so… nervous isn’t the right word, Armin thinks. It’s more like some kind of magnetic pulse, that makes all of Armin’s organs feel like they’re being pulled back towards Eren, as if he’s some kind of home base. As if, despite everything, his body is trying to lead him back home.

But a crush? Don’t be ridiculous. 

“Hey, Armin,” A new voice, low and gruff, draws him out of his train of thought. Still dazed and confused, he has to blearily look around the table to locate it’s source. Some fries have appeared in front of him, he notes. Finally, his eyes land on Eren, one seat diagonal from him, so they don’t have to shout to be heard. He’s chewing a mouthful of burger. There’s sauce on his cheek. Armin doesn’t point it out. “Connie says you’re gay?” Armin nods slowly with narrowed eyes, still not trusting himself to talk. “Woah. That’s great, I mean, man. Great.”

“You didn’t know?” Armin asks. It feels like a chore to move his mouth to frame the words. Two different conversations are assaulting his ears from either side, and there’s a faint ringing coming from his skull on top of that. He blinks, hard. Eren is shaking his head.

“Nah, bro! I guess I never thought about it. I mean, I’ve known you since I was born, basically. Would be kind of weird if I thought about what you were up to in bed,” Eren laughs, messily wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Oh. That’s how it was. “Well, good for you. No homo, though, right?”

“Right,” Armin says, nodding curtly again and forcing a smile and a laugh. Even he can tell it’s not right; the sound of it is too stiff and short. Eren doesn’t seem to notice- he’s already turned his attention back to attacking his burger. It’s gone in three more bites before Armin realises he’s been staring.

“Armin…? Armin?” That’s his name, again. Must have been distracted by the debate going on between Sasha, Connie, Jean, Reiner and Eren about the concept of unreliable narrators in the Diary of a Wimpy Kid book series. He turns: Historia has been calling his name and Mikasa is staring at him. “You okay?”

“Hmm? Yeah. Yeah. Okay,” Armin says. Mikasa looks unconvinced. He’s glad for the concern, but smiles at her as reassuringly as he can, so she reluctantly turns back to her conversation with Annie. Ymir has sauntered off to torment Bertholdt and Marco. That just leaves Historia and Armin.

“That was rough,” She points out, straight to the point, yet still sympathetic. Gracefully, and as if it were the most natural response in the world, she starts to stroke Armin’s head. It’s comforting, if a little weird. Historia has very regal movements; everything she does seems intentional, gentle, and well thought-out. Each gesture is drawn out by her long, elegant, perfectly manicured fingers. Today, it looks like short, freshly french tipped nails with a classic nude polish.

“Yeah, well,” Armin scoffs. He wants to put his head on the table. And maybe cry a little. Maybe when he gets home he’ll do just that. “Even if I did like him, there’s that. He still sees me as that same kid.” Armin leans into Historia’s touch. Ymir would glare if she could see this. “It’s hopeless,” Armin sighs deeply, feeling the familiar sting in his eyes, brave face faltering. 

“Nothing is ever hopeless,” Historia reminds him. It should be condescending, Armin thinks, but he probably deserves to be treated like a child right about now, but Historia is understanding in a way that makes him feel heard and respected, and not humiliated in the slightest. “Now, I don’t know about you, but a makeover always makes me feel better. You might not know this, but Ymir originally turned me down - she had some self deprecating response, it’s a long story - so I went out and got myself a scandalous new dress, caked my face, curled my hair, you know, the whole shebang. And then, I looked so hot that I didn’t even care what she thought.” She’s smiling, obviously a little lost to the memory, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “Anyway,” She starts again, face more serious as if she has just remembered what she’s actually meant to be doing. “You’re already halfway there, right? You’ve already updated your wardrobe.”

Armin nods, still feeling a little woeful. “I don’t think retail therapy is quite gonna cut it.”

“Well, what else does a makeover need? We could get your nails done? Ooh, what do you think about makeup?” Her face is lit up again now. This is her element. “Oh, I could do your face before the party, and you could wear something super hot, and then you’ll walk in and it’ll be like,  _ bam _ , sexy Armin time,” She suggests, and her voice is so bubbly with giggles that Armin can’t help but smile.

“Thanks, Historia,” He says, still leant into her gentle head pats, “But I don’t think I’d be into a full face of makeup.” She nods with understanding, going back to the drawing board. She starts distractedly winding a strand of Armin’s hair around her finger.

“What about a haircut?” Suddenly, she says. Armin doesn't look sure. “Oh, come on, how long has your hair been like this?”

“Well… um… forever?”

Historia rolls her eyes. “Exactly. No wonder he thinks you’re still little baby Armin!”

She has a point. “Well, I guess I have been thinking about a change…”

Historia claps in glee. “Oh, yay! What are we thinking, something drastic? I can make a moodboard- ooh, I think you’d look great with something short…” She’s already whipped out her phone, typing furiously into a search engine. “Go, eat your fries before they get cold, I’ll get to work!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed! i'm considering writing a short side story about how ymir and historia got together - let me know what you think! as always, comments, kudos, and the like mean the world to me! <33
> 
> next time: Jean Respects Women, eren is a himbo, and an inevitable eren and jean argument!


	9. it was a rash not herpes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> despite what the chapter title may suggest, there is only a brief discussion of sti s. nothing graphic! there's some discussion of diary of a wimpy kid at the beginning of this one. if you're not familiar with it (firstly where have you BEEN?!) all you need to know is greg sucks, rowley is a sweetheart, and rodrick rules.

His fries haven’t gone so cold that they taste too bad to eat, but not hot enough to be tasty. It’s okay. He deals. If he can’t finish them, he knows that Sasha will. Speaking of:

“Oh my  _ god _ , Connie, shut  _ up _ . Greg Heffley is clearly a misogynist. You know who respects women? Rowley  _ ‘don’t call me’ _ Jefferson. You’ve been brainwashed by Greg’s narrative!” Sasha says, emphasising her point by banging her fists on the table.

“You know who else respects women? Me,” Jean is butting in now, louder than necessary. “Hear that, everyone? I respect women,” He declares proudly. Then he leans over to Marco and hisses, “Was Mikasa listening?”

“I don’t think so, buddy.” Marco replies, looking sorry for him. Reiner guffaws but terribly conceals it by pretending to cough. Clearly, Jean lacks the perception that Armin possesses, because he doesn’t seem to pick up on this fact. 

“Shut up about my sister. You’re such a Greg,” Eren scowls. “Armin, isn’t he such a Greg? And I’m such a Rodrick, right?” Feeling as though he doesn’t have the capacity to disagree, Armin nods. “See. I’m a Rodrick.”

“Rodrick was hotter than you,” Connie mentions, absentmindedly. 

“No way!” Eren disputes. Using his hands as leverage, he stands in order to lean in close to Connie. The table looks really sticky over there, and there are rings where you can see cups have been left. Bertholdt is the only one who looks weary about this: he’s cautiously wiping the space in front of him down with a napkin. He’s glad to be sitting closer to the girls. Ymir has returned to her natural place at Historia’s side, and is looking at her girlfriend’s phone over her shoulder.

“Historia… are you.. Cutting your hair?” She looks devastated, eyes wide and shiny and bottom lip quivering a little. Armin is shocked to see her like this- she’s always seemed so, well, rough around the edges, let’s say, but when it comes to her girlfriend, it looks like Ymir is a sappy mess. Historia is pressing a finger to her lips urgently, signalling for Ymir to shut up.

“No,” She mutters. “Armin is, but it’s gonna be a surprise.” The brunette looks confused, but knows better than to ask about things she doesn’t understand.

“What are you three whispering about?” Annie asks, staring them down from under her eyelashes. Her voice feels cold, but no more than usual. 

“Nothing!” Honestly, it’s a little alarming how quickly Historia can switch from serious to sweet and bubbly. Armin supposes it’s just an extension of the control that you can see in her movements. Maybe that comes with having thousands of social media followers. “Just giving Armin some top secret photo taking tips.” Annie squints, but then she seems to remember that she just doesn’t care, and shrugs.

“K. Armin, Mikasa said you’re coming to the party. You can stick with me. If anyone tries to pressure you I’ll break their fingers. Plus, you’re bearable, but don’t tell those fuckers that.” Annie is already looking at her phone again, hunched over in her usual white hoodie. Armin wonders whether she just has duplicates or whether it’s the same one pretty much everyday.

“Thanks, Annie,” Armin smiles. She shrugs again in response, as if she’s just letting Armin know that she’s listening. He likes Annie. Of course, she’s terrifying, but that’s almost to your advantage if she likes you too. Plus, it seems she and Mikasa have struck up a good friendship. Mikasa needs that. Armin can imagine her just trailing after Eren after he left; she’s always kept so closely to herself that making friends just didn’t seem like a very Mikasa thing to do. Annie seems to be the same. They’re good for each other in that way, Armin thinks.

Mikasa tilts her phone screen towards Annie, angling it so the blonde can see. Armin notices that they don’t even have to look at each other in order to interact. It’s kind of creepy, like some kind of telepathy that only girls who look like they could knock you out share. Annie’s eyes flick briefly towards the screen. She breathes hard out of her nose once. Mikasa imperceptibly smiles. That’s it. That’s the conversation (or lack of) over.

  
  
  


“Psssst. Arlert!” 

Somebody is stage whispering his name. It’s kind of obnoxious and grates his eardrums a little, but he wouldn’t ever say that to somebody’s face. Sighing, Armin turns his head to look at Jean, whose eyes light up when he notices him looking. He starts beckoning him over. Armin looks at Jean, to the sticky looking table, back to Jean, and then to Marco, who is offering him a smile that looks more like a sorry grimace. Well, they don’t call him a people pleaser for nothing. Armin awkwardly pulls his legs over the bench he’s sat at while trying not to kick Historia (she doesn’t notice, she’s too engrossed in a pinterest board) and shuffles to the louder end of the table.

Jean is sitting between Marco, who’s at the end of the table, and Eren, who is currently about to bash heads with Connie opposite him. It already looks like a bit of a squeeze, but Jean, being Jean, is insistent that Armin will be able to squeeze in between him and Eren.

“Jaeger,” Jean calls, brashly. “Move your fat ass. I wanna talk to Armin.”

Eren is easily distracted from his argument.

“Eren isn’t fat,” Armin says, defensively, despite himself. “I saw him in his athletic shorts a few days ago. He’s not fat,” He adds, proudly, then wonders why he’s proud about that fact. “Besides, fat shouldn’t be an insult, Jean. It’s just a body type. How would you like to be called skinny in that tone of voice?”

“I didn't  _ say _ he was,” Jean drawls, clearly not having paid attention to most of the lecture. Armin sort of can’t blame him. “Only his ass.”

Eren’s scrunching his face up in thought, as if weighing up his options. “Yeah. He’s kinda right. Armin, shouldn’t you know these kinds of things?” He teases, leaning in close to Armin. Quirking one eyebrow in a perfect arch, he takes a long sip from a paper straw that makes Armin swallow hard. “Bleh.” He’s suddenly spluttering. “Who ordered Sprite? Gross. Tastes like.. Batteries.” Despite this, he’s going back in for another drink. Armin rolls his eyes.

“It’s Marco’s, asshole. Marco, don’t drink that. He’s probably given it, like, six venereal diseases.”

“Have  _ not _ . I told you, I didn’t have herpes. It was a rash.” 

“A rash from not washing your dick,” Jean mutters, bitterly.

“Seriously? Who washes their dick?” Eren cries, exasperated. Armin feels his jaw, quite literally, drop.

“Everyone, Eren,” He says, breaking the shocked silence. “Everyone washes their dick.”

“Well, me too. I was just kidding.” There’s a few more moments of silence before everyone goes back into their own separate conversations with unsure murmurs.

“Just out of curiosity,” Eren’s voice is quiet now, less confident. Armin hasn’t heard him like this, so close and intimate, for years. It’s familiar, somehow, despite the obvious change to the way his voice sounds. It’s deep and gravelly now, maybe even a little calmer. Armin feels special when he hears it. “How do you wash your dick?” Yeah, real special. He’s such a lucky guy. 

“I’ll send you a video,” Armin sighs, smiling nonetheless. His and Eren’s thighs are squashed together by their close proximity. It would be so easy to tilt his head to the side, rest it on the sturdy safety of Eren’s shoulder. Instead, he turns to look at the brunet: his sharp jaw, clean shaved; his messy brown hair that he’s swept the top half of into a loose ponytail; his bright green eyes, squinting with the focus that he’s looking at Armin’s crotch with. Armin buries his face into his hands. “Like, the one you see in eighth grade health class, Eren.”

“Ohh,” He grins dopily, poking his tongue between his left canines. “Thought you were gonna send me a video of your dick. I was all like, good for you, I guess! Not weird unless you make it weird, you know?”

“Yeah,” Armin smiles back. Eren isn’t exactly stupid. He was good enough to get into college, and he’s majoring in geography, which he’s good at. Not top of the class, but not bottom either, from what Mikasa tells him. What he is lacking in is the common sense department. “No, it’s weird.”

“Got it. No dick pics for Armin, then.”

“No dick pics for anyone unless they explicitly consent to them?” Armin suggests. Eren nods solemnly.

“Hey, asshole. Stop hogging Arlert. I wanna talk to him.” Jean’s voice is, as usual, unwelcome, brazenly interrupting what would’ve been a quiet moment where Armin looks into Eren’s eyes and holds his gaze, serious for a moment and then suddenly smiling. It would’ve made Eren’s gut drop and think, wait, when did Armin get hot? Well, at least, that’s what Armin hopes it would’ve been. There’s no way to prove him wrong, technically. 

“I have a right to hog him. He’s  _ my _ friend,” Eren taunts, childishly. Conveniently, he leaves out the part where he completely avoided Armin for the first few months after his return to Shiganshina. If he doesn’t mention it, Armin won’t. He can’t wait to forget that all happened.

“I need to talk to him,” Jean repeats, “And I’m pretty sure he’s more Mikasa’s friend than yours.”

“Shut up,” Eren bites. “He’s my friend, that’s that.”

Briefly, Armin wonders if this is what it’s like to have two boys fighting over him. He decides that yes, it is, and he quite enjoys it. Jean is good looking enough, he thinks. And Armin is pretty sure he’s at least a little bit not straight. Stereotypes are harmful and all that, but Jean wears some pretty tight skinny jeans. And he said something about Eren’s ass just a matter of minutes ago. Maybe he’s bi..? That’s all besides the point. Eren was aggressively straight (the “no homo” is still replaying over and over in his mind), yet Armin had no problem with him being in this whole gay scenario. If two attractive men want to argue over who gets his attention, who is he to stop them?

“Whatever. Armin, what’s the deal with Mikasa and Annie?”

“Don’t talk to that loser. Stop getting all up in my sister’s shit, too, Kirschtein,” Eren huffs. His cheeks are pink, and his clenched fists shake microscopically. Armin notices. He always does. Eren is clearly trying to act calm, by his own standards, as if none of this is bothering him as much as it clearly is. As if it were reflex, Armin presses his hand to Eren’s arm. He doesn’t think about it, but suddenly, his pale hand is pressed against Eren’s hot skin, still sending off sparks as it had years ago. This time, Armin is the first to let go. As quick as it had happened, it’s over. Fearing the worst, he doesn’t dare look at Eren’s face.

“You should ask her yourself, if you really want to know,” Armin says.

“I don’t want to look desperate,” Jean argues.

“Jean, I hate to break it to you,” Marco says gently, finally having decided to step in, “But you kind of already do.” With that, Jean is off on another animated rant- Jean himself would probably have described it as a lament, but Armin prefers to be more straightforward about these sorts of things. As he throws himself dramatically on to Marco’s shoulder, whose patience for such antics appears to be unwavering, Armin is acutely aware of Eren’s knee bouncing energetically next to his.

“You okay?” Armin whispers, still not quite brave enough to look at him.

“Yeah. Just,” He can sense Eren moving next to him; Armin thinks he is running a hand through his hair, which is almost enough to make him turn and watch. “I just wanna go home. Can you drive me? Please?” They both turn, almost in sync, to look at one another. Eren’s expression isn’t one that Armin can place. He isn’t used to that- looking at Eren and not being able to know exactly what’s going through his head.

“Yeah,” Armin says, quietly. “Course. I’ll just grab Mikasa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> really enjoyed writing this chapter - silly scout interactions are so fun! hence why this one is a bit longer than usual.  
> i mentioned last chapter about writing a short side story about ymir and historia and there was quite a bit of positive response. it's currently in the very bare bones drafting stages. while i aim to get it dine before the final chapter of this is posted, all roads is going to be my main priority. more updates to come in later chapters! i'll be sure to let you all know when it's up :)
> 
> next time: the trio watch elf, share a single couch, and mikasa lets her guard down. it's a bit of a soppy one, lads.


	10. but, like, a sexy street rat

“Eren, move. You’re taking up half of the couch,” Mikasa demands. Armin can feel her wiggling her hips in order to make more space for herself, which just squishes Armin closer to Eren. He isn’t complaining. In fact, there’s nowhere else he would rather be, presently, then sandwiched between Mikasa and Eren. Except maybe sandwiched underneath Eren and a mattress. Maybe. But that was private information, and definitely not something he should be thinking about right now. Especially not when he found out just days ago that Eren’s personal hygiene has lower standards than a feral street rat. But a sexy street rat. 

“It’s not my fault,” Eren whines. “My ass is just too fat. Right, Armin?” He’s raising his eyebrows, up and down, for at least ten seconds before Armin can get his mouth and brain to co-operate and formulate an answer.

“It’s not even that big,” Armin admits, “I just wasn’t going to embarrass you in front of everyone else,” He adds, sweetly, offering an innocent smile that he knows works wonders on anyone over the age of forty-two. Eren sees straight through it, scoffing and shoving him, but Mikasa’s muscular arms cushion his fall. “Apart from Mikasa.”

“My opinion of you couldn’t get lower,” Casually adjusting her bangs, she adds, “Smelly dick.” That appears to be the last straw, if the way Eren lunges for Mikasa across Armin is anything to go by. Armin’s back gets forced into the soft pleather as Eren leans across him and (kind of pathetically, but in a cute way) attacks Mikasa, who pushes him back into his corner of the couch with ease.

Ever since that day at the mall, where Armin had driven Eren and Mikasa home, Eren has started joining what normally would have been just himself and Mikasa in hanging out at their place. It’s nice. Sometimes it’s just like old days, but Armin is learning to accept it when it isn’t. As a result of these developments, Armin has spent the first few days of Winter break practically living at the Jaegers’ house. He can’t lie, it’s kind of great.

Eren, now, has surrendered some more space, which Armin gladly takes advantage of by spreading out a bit while Eren pants, trying to get his breath back. It’s the day before Christmas Eve. Tomorrow, Dr and Mrs Jaeger will return home, and Armin will spend the day with his grandpa before his parents arrive on Christmas morning. Armin knows he should be excited for the festivities, but he can’t help but feel a twinge of sadness at the thought of not seeing Eren and Mikasa until the party on the 28th. On the other hand, he’s pretty buzzed about the haircut he has scheduled for the morning of the party. Historia is taking him to her hairdressers. Now that he mentions it, Historia has also chosen the new hairstyle. He should get her a little thank you for taking all the stress of decision making away from him.

“Ah, shit. Mikasa made me spill the popcorn,” Eren sighs, looking at his lap in dismay.

“It’s your fault,” Mikasa reasons, “If you hadn’t had picked a fight you knew you would lose this never would have happened.”

“Yeah, Eren,” Armin chimes, sticking his tongue out. Eren throws a piece of crotch popcorn - crotchcorn? - at his face, which he expertly catches. “What? Five second rule.”

Eren shrugs, in a way that says, yeah, you’ve got a point, before grabbing a handful and shoving it in his mouth. Realising that Eren plans to sweep all of the popcorn off of the blanket covering his legs and back into the bowl, Armin sets to helping him brush down his lap.

“Mikasaaaa,” Eren whines, “Armin’s trying to feel me uuuup.”

“Get a room,” Mikasa deadpans. Meanwhile, Armin thinks he might be dying. This is it. Goodbye cruel world. His face is, in all sense of the word (and Armin has been known to correct Eren for his frequent misuse of it), literally about to blow up. 

“Shut up,” Armin mumbles. Now it’s his turn to shove Eren, just once, in the arm. “As if I wanna go anywhere near your rancid… penis.” The brunet grins, like Christmas has come early, holding in a laugh. Weird thing to be happy about, Armin thinks, but okay.

“Can you two stop fondling each other now?” Mikasa says. “This is a good bit.”

Eren and Armin share a look. Everything about it is solemn, apart from their eyes, which are alive like giggling children who have just been caught while up to some sort of mischief.

“Yes Mikasa,” Eren chimes. Armin repeats, mimicking the tone and all.

  
  


They settle down, all the same - neither of them are prepared to take on the wrath they will undoubtedly experience if they further interfere with Mikasa’s viewing of Elf. It’s an old Christmas favourite of theirs. They would always clamour for Mrs Jaeger to let them stay up late to watch in during the festive season. She would make the best hot cocoa when they watched it, with a mountain of whipped cream and marshmallows, and even real chocolate grated over the top. It probably wasn’t wise to give them so much sugar before bed, because then they would all end up whispering for hours after they were meant to be asleep, but Carla struggled to deprive them of such sheer joy.

While there isn’t any hot chocolate this time round, Armin is just happy to be with his best friends this year. But he’s still secretly hoping that he can visit again before Carla and Grisha leave for their next excursion, just in case there’s a chance of one.

The fairy lights on the Christmas tree are twinkling, slowly fading in and out. It sends tiny beams of light from the shining tinsel bouncing off of the wall and ceiling. Sometimes, a gentle breeze will make a glass ornament turn, and then light will spin around the room dizzyingly, or one of the bells adorning the branches will make a single jingling note. The lights have been dimmed, the curtains drawn, and a crocheted blanket has been pulled up to Armin, Eren and Mikasa’s chins. Buddy is eating spaghetti doused in maple syrup. 

“Sasha,” Eren and Armin whisper at the same time. They turn to each other, a little too suddenly, so it causes their foreheads to bash into one another. As they break out into peals of laughter, it seems the quiet was short lived.

  
  


He thinks Mikasa is crying.

This, of course, is not anything he was prepared for. He can’t actually remember Mikasa crying  _ ever _ , which is a feat when you’ve known someone for nearly as long as your brain developed the ability to store memories. Well, there was once - when Armin moved away. When she thought he couldn’t see her from the rear window of his car anymore, she had wiped her eyes roughly with her palms. But he’s never seen her cry like this, so openly. The shock of this is almost enough to distract Armin from the fact that Eren has fallen asleep, head lolling against Armin’s shoulder, and lips, slightly chapped from the cold, parted in deep, contented breaths.

As it’s the first time that this has happened in his whole life, Armin finds himself unsure of what to do. This is happening increasingly often, he notes. Normally, he would regard any and all uncertainties as unpleasant, but he’s finding it more and more easy to come to terms with them these days. 

That’s not to say he’s finding this experience enjoyable. He thinks Mikasa thinks he’s sleeping, too. He can’t blame her. He had mastered the art of sitting completely still and had secretly been trying to match his breathing pattern with Eren’s, before he found himself dozing off for a few minutes at a time, drugged by the intoxicating warmth of the central heating and Eren’s musky scent.  _ Don’t think about his hygiene habits _ , Armin reminded himself. He smells good. Armin lets his eyes flutter open. Mikasa still hasn't realised. For a few moments Armin watches, assessing somewhat, watching the way her lips tremble and she tries not to let her breath come in thick gasps: she’s obviously trying to be stealthy, so as not to wake the boys up. It makes Armin’s lips twitch and eyes sting a little. She’s never wanted to be a ‘bother’, as she puts it. While Buddy is apologised to by Walter, the blue-ish light of the TV in the dark room lights up the tear tracks running down Mikasa’s face, making them sparkle and glimmer.

Slowly, gently, so as not to disturb either of his best friends, Armin shifts Eren’s head (god, it’s heavy, Armin didn’t think that heads alone could weigh so much) so that its weight is supported by the back of the couch. Eren stirs, mumbling in protest, but doesn’t wake up. However, it’s still enough to alarm Mikasa. She gasps, quickly wiping her face with her black lacy sleeves.

“Hi.” She sounds hoarse. “Didn’t know you were awake.” She smiles. Puzzled, Armin realises that this  _ is _ her usual, genuinely happy smile. She’s always had a smile like this, with all of her teeth showing and her eyes looking like they might spill at any moment. Feeling a little foggy eyed himself, he smiles back, shuffling closer to her and resting his head on her chest.

“‘S okay, Kasa,” he murmurs. He takes one of her slender hands in his and traces little shapes and messages on it. She laughs tearily.

“I know. It’s better than okay, Armin. I’m really happy, right now. Really, truly happy,” She whispers. It sounds like the breath keeps getting trapped in the back of her throat. Armin knows that feeling all too well.

“Me too.” He moves his head - tries to, at least, it ends up with his neck craned in an uncomfortable position in order to avoid crushing Mikasa’s boob, because something tells him that she wouldn’t be thrilled by that - to look up at her still shiny face, lifting his free hand to thumb a tears away from under her eye. “Your makeup is too pretty to ruin,” He says, leaning up again to press a quick kiss to her cheek. “So you don’t need to cry.” She laughs again, or at least tries to, but it ends up more like a hiccup. And another. That might actually be the hiccups, come to think of it.

“Damn it,” She giggles. “I always get the hiccups when I cry. Which isn’t often.” She adds, almost as reassurance.

“It’s okay to cry, you know. I do it all the time.”

“Still,” Mikasa interjects, a little snarkily, but she’s smiling peacefully still.

“Yes, still,” Armin replies, trying his very best to sound unimpressed when in actuality he had found that comment quite funny. “You should go and fix your makeup before Eren wakes up. You know he’ll get all worried and start asking questions.”

“Mmm,” Mikasa hums, wrapping her arms around Armin. They’re firm from hours of training, which Armin would usually have thought made for uncomfortable hugs, but he knows from years of experience that they’re the best. “Five more minutes of hugs. Missed you, Armin. Missed this.” She nods towards Eren, who has fallen from the position that Armin had struggled to so delicately put him in, which has caused his mouth to fall wide open. His snores aren’t so loud that they’re distracting, but just noisy enough to be funny. Armin takes a video. He’ll send that to the group chat later. For now, he wants to laugh with Mikasa, wrapped up in her arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope this wasn't too out of character for mikasa - considering they've all gone through SIGNIFCANTLY LESS TRAUMA in this au i think it's fine :D
> 
> join me next chapter for MORE fluff, mikasa interrupting, and surfer dude armin.


	11. radical, duuuude

Eren wakes up when Mikasa is in the bathroom washing the black streaks of mascara and eyeliner that had smudged over her cheeks in her earlier haste to wipe her tears away. The credits of Elf are playing by then, and Armin guesses that the sudden loud music rouses him from his slumber. He’s mumbling a string of incoherent words and rubbing his eyes, and Armin realises that he can’t stop looking at him even if he tries. 

“Mmm. Morning,” Eren grumbles, stretching his legs and arms out so far and hard that he visibly shakes. Armin avoids looking at the way that the blanket pools in his lap, revealing a band of skin as Eren’s shirt rides up a little. He tries, that’s what’s important. Anyway, what’s a little delectably ripped stomach between friends? “Armin’s still here,” Eren is mumbling to nobody in particular, “Staying the night?” His voice is deliciously low and gravelly with sleep, rumbling like thunder against Armin’s ear drums.

“No,” Armin sighs, “It’s not that late. You just dozed off.” Armin wants to be tender. He wants to sweep the fly-away strands of Eren’s hair that are tickling his face away, smooth his ponytail, maybe even press his lips to Eren’s forehead. He wants to run his fingers gently down Eren’s sharp cheekbones or trace the angles of his face, commit the nooks and crannies of each bone structure to memory. He wants nothing more than to cozy into Eren’s touch and spend the night like this, quiet and warm, in front of the TV, cuddled on the couch. Instead, he ruffles the hair on Eren’s sleepy head. It’s not worth the hurt.

“You should,” Eren complains, flopping sideways so his head lands on Armin’s lap. “Stay, I mean.”

“Another day,” Armin promises. With Eren’s head just there, it’s too easy for him to loop his fingers through the chocolate coloured locks and play with them, twisting them between his knuckles or massaging the scalp with his fingertips. He doesn’t even notice the absent movement of his fingers doing just that until Eren makes a high pitched (for Eren, that still means pretty low) sound in the back of his throat. Panicked, Armin snatches his hands away, worrying that he might have tugged on the hair in his haste.

“No. Don’t stop,” Eren whines. “More.” Normally, Armin would have thought of something witty or sarcastic about Eren’s demands, but he can’t quite bring his brain to function normally. He decides to savour these moments. He wants to remember the way that Eren’s hair feels like spun silk slipping through his fingers like liquid, or the way his eyes close in a way that looks like he’s melting into an unreachable peace, or the way his deep breaths come slow and hot against Armin’s legs. He’ll mourn the loss of the solid warmth Eren provides later, for sure. Maybe it is worth the hurt, after all. “You should stay the night just to do this.”

Armin can feel his face heating up steadily by the second. It’s almost as if Eren could tell he was thinking the exact same thing. He wouldn’t care about getting a crick in his neck from having to look down at Eren, or if he got too hot and his neck started sticking uncomfortably to the back of the pleather sofa, as long as he got to watch him, and really see him, in such an intimate and private way. T _ hat’s so stalkerish _ , he thinks.  _ You just want to watch the poor man sleep _ . Yeah. Sounds about right.

“Eren…” He isn’t sure why his mouth is moving. He doesn’t know what to say. His lips just form the name without thinking, as if it’s the most natural response for him. The way the syllables fit in his mouth feels right. 

Oh god.

Maybe Armin doesn’t just think that Eren is obscenely attractive. Surely- surely Historia wasn’t right?

  
  


“Mom just texted,” Mikasa calls, pushing the living room door open with her hip. Her arms are full, carrying a few cans of soda. “They’re just about to board. Be here early tomorrow morning.”

Eren sits up with a start, moving back to his corner of the sofa. Armin’s hands are left hovering in the air where they had rested on Eren’s head. His lap feels cold.

“Oh, nice,” Eren mutters, pulling the blanket back up to his chin. Mikasa’s footsteps stop, a few feet away from the couch. She frowns.

“Everything okay in here? I’m not interrupting something, am I?” 

“Shut up,” Eren grumbles, “As if.”

Yeah, as if, Armin. Get a grip. “Eren just woke up. He’s probably grumpy and tired.”

“Am not!” The brunet complains. Stretching once more, Eren stands up. “I gotta piss,” He adds, as an explanation. Clumsily, he steps out of the room with heavy feet. Armin and Mikasa can hear them pounding down the hall until a door slams shut.

“Were you two-”

“No!” Armin cries. “God, no. I could never- Eren isn’t gay, and-” He spluters, pulling his knees up to his chest and hiding his face, hoping Mikasa won’t see the completely obvious red flush on his cheeks.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like he’s the straightest of the bunch, either. One time Jean stayed over, and dear Lord, I can still hear it when I try to sleep.”

“Shut up!” Armin squeaks. He feels as if he shouldn’t have heard that. Hell, he knows he shouldn’t have heard that. He’s ashamed to admit that Mikasa’s revelation made him a little bit hopeful, before the logical part of his brain shuts down the wave of optimistic thoughts that distract him from the fact that he shouldn’t be thinking about his best friend in bed - or in any romantic or sexual manner, in fact. “Wait, I thought Jean liked you-”

“That’s the disturbing part,” Mikasa sighs, sliding on to the couch. “I don’t want to think about it.” Shuddering, she leans her head on Armin’s shoulder. Her face looks fresh and dewy now. Armin isn’t used to seeing her without makeup anymore: aside from the few times he’s arrived to pick her up early while she was only half way ready, she’s always been perfectly made up in her own messy way. “You know if you hurt Eren, I’ll still be mad, right?” Quickly, Armin nods. 

“I won’t!” He promises. “We’re friends again, right?”

“Right. But if you were to be anything more-”

“Which we won’t.”

“But if you were, and it were to go wrong,” Mikasa insists. Jarringly, she’s patting Armin’s arm in a reassuring manner that completely juxtaposes the threatening tone of voice. “Well, I’ve never been exactly rational when it comes to Eren’s feelings. I’m sure you don’t need reminding,” She finishes brightly.

“Nothing is going to happen,” Armin reiterates. “I don’t know where everyone has got this idea from, anyway.” 

“What idea?” Eren asks, sounding significantly less groggy. Armin privately grieves the loss of the low rumble that is Eren’s sleepy voice. He pads into the living room, legs co-operating more from feeling more awake yet still slightly heavy-footed, as is Eren’s way. His actions are less delicate and suave than Mikasa’s as he plonks onto the sofa, jostling Armin a little as he falls.

Mikasa begins answering coolly and casually. “That you and Armin-”

“Are gonna get hammered at this party, yoooo!” It’s a bizarre attempt at a holler, which explains why Armin receives a blank stare in response from Eren. He shakes both of his hands, which are held into shaka signs, slowly, for a few too many seconds before, just as slowly, lowering them to his lap.

“Excited?” Eren asks, bemused. “Gonna catch some gnarly waves on the way?” He imitates Armin’s gesture.

“Maybe,” Armin quips. “You don’t know what I got up to for all those years.” Eren’s grin stiffens for a split second. Anybody else probably wouldn’t noticed. “Maybe I’m a radical surfer now.” He says, as a way of lightening the mood. While Eren hesitates, unsure for a moment, he still breaks out into roaring belly laughter after a moment, and Mikasa snickers quietly beside him. “You’re just jealous. And I look  _ great _ in a wetsuit, so there.” Armin huffs, folding his arms over his chest. Eren wheezes harder, clapping Armin’s shoulder.

“I bet you do, buddy,” He splutters. Armin can’t stay mad, and he can feel a laugh building up in his chest that he can’t keep in any more when he feels giddy from the physical contact of Eren’s palm to his shoulder. Grinning, Armin lets himself laugh along with the ridiculousness of it all. And for a moment, there’s no crush-that-isn’t-a-crush tugging at his heart-strings, no underlying tension typing knots in his guts. It’s just Armin, Eren and Mikasa. It’s all as it should be. And it’s perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me? obsessed w armin playing w eren's hair? surely not.... hope you enjoyed the fluff :)
> 
> speaking of surfing - i took a break from writing all roads this week (don't worry, i have enough chapters prewritten to last a few week still) to work on a surfer!mikasa au. it won't be as long as this, just a couple of parts, but if you fancy reading some of my purely self indulgent ripped lesbian mikasa on a surfboard content (with some background established eremin, of course) keep an eye on my profile! sorry for the shameless self promo lol.
> 
> next update: armin and grisha get personal, strange dreams, and a traditional german christmas eve.


	12. ur mom lol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter and the next focusses a lot on christmas. there's a lot of focus on the traditions, but i avoided religious talk.

“Byyyyye!” Eren calls, waving his hand wildly in an exaggerated show of goodbyes, even though Armin is just ten feet or so away from him down the driveway. The light of the hallway illuminates the two figures at the door, so Armin can see the way Mikasa elbows his ribs and shushes him. 

“Don’t piss off the neighbours,” She warns. Eren nods quickly, rubbing his abdomen where Mikasa had made contact. 

“Bye,” Armin says at a more appropriate volume. “I’ll see you soon. Tell your mom I said hi!”

“Tell _ your _ mom I said I think she’s hot and I’m down whenever she is,” Eren barks, stroking his chin and flicking his tongue out in a near perfect imitation of Jean that makes Armin’s skin crawl in all the wrong ways, for once.

“Gross,” Burying her face in her hands, Mikasa groans. "They have the same face."

“Tell your dad he’s sexy and I had great fun last night!” Armin answers cheerfully, already turning to unlock his car. He can’t help but ruin the performance just a little by stealing a glance back at Eren, who’s looking a little puzzled. Unlike Mikasa, who is staring at Armin with disgusted disbelief.

“You dirty dog,” Mikasa says, stunned. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Oh, I had it in me, alright.” He winks, bobbing his head with the over the top movement. Armin is a little shocked himself, to be honest. Spending time with people his own age has clearly encouraged him to make remarks that he would never have dreamed of even thinking in the past six years, when the closest friends he had were his middle aged parents. Finally, it appears Eren has caught on, and his face goes through multiple emotions in just seconds - the initial disgust hardens into a scowl, then his face softens in thought before moulding into almost an expression of pride.

“Touch é ,” He remarks. “That was a good one.”

“That’s what he said..?” Armin pulls a face- he knows that one wasn’t as good. He’s getting there. Sighing, he starts yanking the car door open. “Night, guys. Seriously, say hello to your parents for me.”

“I will,” Mikasa says, before Eren can get in any more jokes that would have been more fitting for a thirteen year old sitting at the back of the middle school bus. “Merry Christmas, Armin. Pass on our love to your family.” From where he’s stood, he can catch the shine of her teeth, barely making out her wide smile.

“Merry Christmas,” Armin smiles, praying that they’re too far away to see the way that his eyes start swimming. Some things have changed - there’s no denying that. But one fact that will never change is the fact that Armin cries as a result of feeling any emotion whatsoever in excess amounts. Upset? Time to cry. Happy? Time to cry. You get the gist. 

“Merry Christmas,” Eren adds. He smiles, soft, any remnants of his public over the top attitude dropped in this moment. Pointedly ignoring the way his cheeks warm up, Armin slides into the driver's seat, offering one last wave before he slams the door shut.

Armin thinks spending so much time close to Eren is genuinely harmful to his brain. His sleep is consumed with fantasies of the man in varying stages of appropriateness or innocence, and a number of strange locations. There was one really weird dream involving a McDonald's play area and their seventh grade homeroom teacher trying to attack Armin, who is paralysed with fear, unable to even scream for help. Thankfully, Eren took the role of the knight in shining armour - shirtless, which Armin thanked his brain for in the morning - and bounded through the ball pit in pursuit of Armin, knocking Mr. Smith out with a swift high kick.

This evening’s dream is one that Armin is less inclined to share the details of, to say the very least. Having slept so deeply, he’s confused when he wakes up, still feeling the floaty feeling of his dreams in his body as he rolls over, to face the person calling his name. 

“Mmm… Eren…” He mumbles, voice sounding crackly from sleep and giggles. His duvet is so warm and smooth against his skin; he isn’t ready to open his eyes and face the day yet. Just five more minutes…

“Eren?” Hisses Marie Arlert.

“The Jaeger’s boy, you remember,” Tobias, his father, says, quietly. “Such a very nice German family. I bet they wait for Christmas Eve to decorate the tree. They seem the type to respect tradition.”

Armin’s mother hushes him. “Shush! He’s waking up.” Their accents seem so much thicker than before, now he’s been surrounded by his friends for a few months. It doesn’t help that they’ve spent the last fortnight on a trip to Starnberg, visiting aunts and uncles over the festive period. The sound of thick German accents, the softening of the vs and the harsh lack of ws, is almost foreign to him now, yet the sound is immediately comforting. 

What isn’t comforting, however, is the fact that his father is stripping the duvet off of Armin’s skinny, mostly nude body.

“Dad!” Armin yelps, eyes wide open now, darting into a seated position.

“Dad! Can you believe it, Tobias,” His mother tuts. “So crass. Talking to his old Papa like that.” Armin is barely listening, scrambling to pull his sheets back up to at least cover his boxers. “Well? Aren’t you pleased to see us?” She demands, looking down at him with furrowed brows. Armin grins. He knows she can’t keep up the pretence for long.

“Mama,” He beams. “Papa. You’re here early.” His mother’s stoic facade cracks, tears pricking in the corner of her eyes as she leans down to swallow Armin in a hug and shower him in kisses. Armin squirms in fits of giggles. 

“Oh, look at our baby boy,” His mother coos. “All grown up.”

“Don’t  _ look _ ,” Armin groans. “I would’ve got dressed if I knew you were coming early,” He complains, folding his arms in an attempt to keep some form of dignity.

“So grown up,” His father says, “That I’ll let you off for not saving the Christmas tree for Christmas Eve.” Armin is a little bewildered- in his half-conscious state, he wasn’t aware that his father had been expecting to follow their usual German traditions, but he knows well enough to just smile and nod along.

“You know we couldn’t miss Christmas Eve. Tradition as normal, okay? Potato and sausage this evening, then presents. But first, get dressed! We brought back Lebkuchen as a Christmas treat. If you’re not quick, your grandpa will have eaten it all.” She snaps her finger twice, ushering Armin’s father out of the door as she goes. “Schnell! Schnell!”

By the time Armin is washed and dressed in a giant cozy sweater and some slouchy cream chinos, his mother has only salvaged half of a honey-sweetened treat. He doesn’t mind so much, and he happily munches on the half-heart shape that his grandfather left for him. The remaining letters lead Armin to believe that it had previously spelled ‘ich liebe dich’ in perfectly iced white cursive, and it’s adorned with tiny red hearts. He can’t help but think that his mother must really have missed him if she was willing to let him eat all the sugary cake that he wanted.

“Really, papa,” She chides his grandfather, but she’s still doting over him, wiping the crumbs from his sweater vest.

“What went on with this Christmas tree, Leon?” His father interjects. The living room is bustling: his mother leaning over the back of his grandfather’s armchair, and his father stood woefully in front of the television, throwing his hands up in disappointment towards the tree makes the room feel fuller than it ever has before. “So tacky. Are there no real candles we can attach?” Armin is slightly bemused by the fact that he’s still so hung up on the tree, and can almost hear the lecture he would get if he dared to question this ( _ “We invented the Christmas tree! And this is how we respect our ancestors? With flashing fairy lights?” _ ).

“Papa,” Armin protests, mouth full of Lebkuchen, “Grandpa and I can’t see the TV. We’re missing the movie.” Aside from a few more noises of complaint, his father gives in and settles on the armchair that Armin usually claims for himself. Today, he’s taken the brown velvet loveseat - Grandpa Leon tells him he’s owned it since first moving in with his late grandmother - in order to curl up with his mother. The only issue is, she’s so busy bustling in the kitchen or fussing over her father, that she’s barely had a moment sitting down since she arrived. Armin doesn’t mind. For one, the kitchen smells just amazing from the homemade potato salad and sausage. Herbs and spices dance on the warm air circulating the house, anticipating the best meal that Armin has likely eaten since he started back at school. As much as he’s enjoyed fast food, nothing beats when his mother abandons her perfectly balanced diet at Christmas.

As if the food isn’t comforting enough, Armin is pleased to see his grandpa so happy. He’s trying to hide it, with all his mumbles and grumbles, but Armin catches him smiling contentedly when he thinks no-one is looking. Armin can’t help but mirror the expression, remembering Christmases as a child where his grandpa would come to stay from Christmas eve until Zweiter Weihnachtsfeiertag. With being back in Shiganshina with his family, and spending most of the break with Eren and Mikasa, he can almost fool himself into thinking he’s a kid again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo mama so sad she writes eremin fanfic to cope. oh wait.  
> mr smith is indeed erwin i couldn't just NOT include erwin,,,,  
> really enjoyed writing the arlert family this chapter! marie is a very intense mother hen, thobias is awkward and stressed, and grandpa leon is a very naughty man - a perfect happy family. if you couldn't tell, they're german and love their culture and traditions! (well, mostly thobias, but, you know.) merry christmas! i myself am BRITISH IM SO SORRY i did a lot of research so i hope i got everything right if you're actually german please don't roast me too hard im sorry
> 
> join me on friday for gifts, armin revealing a secret, and a facetime call with the jaegers :)


	13. merry xmas ya filthy animals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, this chapter covers themes of christmas - mentions tradition again, but not religion. and some underage drinking (technically. Armin is 19, so in Germany, it would be legal, but on the fictional continent of Paradis who knows lol.) stay safe!

Armin rattles the wrapped package in his hands. It’s wrapped in a shiny red paper, and the edges are a little frumpy, marking it apart from the gifts his mother and father have put under the tree, which are wrapped in sustainable brown paper and tied with bows of string. 

“Oh,” his grandpa says, spotting Armin expecting the gift. “That’s from me.” He leans in closer. “It’s a jigsaw of a strapping young lad without his t-shirt on. Maybe open it later,” He explains, with a wink. “You’re welcome.” Armin widens his eyes in a disapproving way.

“Leon, this one’s for you,” Tobias calls, reading the neatly printed gift tag on the gift bag that Armin had set under the tree this morning. Sitting cross legged at the foot of the old man’s armchair, he smiles and looks up to watch his Grandpa rummage through the bag. It has a tacky print on it that looks like it belongs on an ugly Christmas sweater, with its pattern of garish, shiny, gold snowflakes and the profile of reindeer. His grandpa doesn’t seem to notice - he’s never been the most in tune with these sorts of things - but from the almost smug, pleased smile Leon is wearing, Armin can tell that he actually enjoys his gifts. He’s glad: it had been hard work to get his grandpa to sit and smile for a self-timer photo of the two of them in their respective armchairs, but it was well worth it to see the child-like glimmer in his eye when he opens up the personalised jigsaw. He signifies his approval of the new slippers by immediately sticking them on his feet and shuffling about in them merrily while he squints at the blurb of the psychological thriller Armin bought for him.

He feels a little guilty watching his parents opening their, in comparison, underwhelming gifts. They don’t seem to mind so much, perhaps as a result of the mugs of gluhwein and the high of the family being back together. They make contented comments on the scratch-away map that Armin had bought after seeing an ad for it on instagram, and smile as they compare the books they each get.

Once the whole ordeal of exchanging gifts is over, Armin is happy to settle back into his usual armchair, cupping a mug of hot gluhwein in both of his palms. It has a warming effect that reminds him, with a pang, of Eren’s warm, sleeping body leaning against his. He smiles into the mug.

“Armin, you mentioned young Eren earlier, didn’t you?” His father asks, rubbing his glasses against the hem of his sweatshirt.

“Oh, young Eren, of course!” His mother is long lost to the wine. Glossy eyed, she has already travelled down memory lane, leaving a trail of “ _ remember when _ ”s behind her. “So angry. Say, how are the Jaegers?”

“Good.” Armin nods, feeling a little too warm and refusing to catch anyone’s eyes. “Less angry. Mikasa is good. Pretty.”

“Oh, you and Mikasa are-?” His father looks a little taken aback, putting his cup of Gluhwein on the coffee table. 

“No!” Armin says, hastily. “God, no.” There’s an awkward moment where Armin pretends to not notice the charged stare that his parents pointedly share. Swearing he can feel his stomach squirming uncomfortably, he takes a long drink from his mug in order to excuse himself from meeting anyone’s eyes. The wine warms his chest pleasantly, and the heat slips all the way down his abdomen in a way that makes his insides feel fizzy and his head a little braver. As he takes in a deep breath for extra courage, he puts his cup down - a little harder than he had meant to, but at least he had everyone’s attention now. No time like the present.

“I’m gay.” He declares. The words come out louder than he had expected them to. As soon as they leave his mouth, his throat feels dry. He wishes he hadn’t put his mug down now.

Tobias clears his throat after a few moments. “Well,” He begins, slowly, “You know that your mother and I love you very much-”

“Drop the act, Tobias,” Marie sighs. Armin gulps, throat suddenly dry enough to be grating as his wide eyes start to prickle.

“I-” He begins, despising the way his bottom lip begins to tremble.

“Oh, Schatzi, no!” His mother interrupts, own eyes widening as she recognises the hurt on Armin’s face. “Not like that! I meant, stop acting shocked. We knew, Liebste.”

Armin feels his face blank before a shade of bright pink creeps up his neck and face. “Well, that’s embarrassing.”

“Yes,” Marie laughs, “Not as embarrassing as how we found out. You know, under the bed is a bad hiding place for-”

“ _ Stopohmygodstop. _ ”

  
  


Having endured more than enough humiliation for one evening, Armin is more than willing to crawl into bed later that night. They had rung in midnight with a cheerful clinking of mugs of gluhwein before Armin excused himself to head to bed - but not before his mother had a chance to squeeze him in an overly emotional, tearful hug. Armin is not ashamed to admit that he had openly wept.  _ Nothing wrong with loving your Mama _ , he thinks now, still dressed, lay on his back and staring at the ceiling. His head feels a little lighter than it normally does, like he’s taken in a lungful of helium. The thought of it makes him giggle, and then the effort of it makes him feel dizzy even though he’s lying down. It takes a moment for his inebriated brain to realise that his ears aren’t ringing - it’s actually his mobile. Heavy-handedly, he picks up the phone and clumsily presses his thumb down to answer the FaceTime call.

“MERRY CHRISTMAS!” Eren roars. His hair looks unusual when it’s loose around his face like that - good, of course, but not what Armin’s used to. It frames his cheekbones nicely, he thinks, and a few strands have a habit of falling in front of his face, so he keeps tossing his head in a way that Armin so desperately wants to call arrogant and douchey, but instead is just charming. Grinning in that lopsided way, Eren turns the camera away from himself momentarily.

“Merry Christmas!” The rest of the Jaegers charm, not quite meeting Eren’s super-human enthusiasm.

“Merryyy Christmaaas,” Armin sing-songs back, offering an equally dopey grin back. He’s pleased to see Eren’s flushed face dominate the screen again. Then he tries not to think about what that means.

“You’re in bed? I didn’t wake you, did I?” The brunet worries, tone softening in a way that strips it of all it’s usual brash bravado. It’s hard, Armin realises, to see him in such quiet, intimate ways. It’s hard; it’s too easy to fool himself that this Eren is all for himself, and the pangs he gets in his chest when he remembers that Eren is far from his get more painful each time around. He wonders if all the girls - and boys, Armin supposes, after the whole Jean revelation - have seen Eren like this, seen him soft and sleepy and quiet, whether they’ve seen him angry to the point of tears. He can’t help but hope that they haven’t. As silly as it sounds, he wants to keep this part of his best friend private. 

“No,” Armin reassures, after what he worries is a few too many moments of silence. “Mama and Papa got back, so… you know how it is. Tradition.”

“Oh, God. I know,” Eren groans, pushing his hair back with his big hands. “How did the Christmas Tree go down?” Armin snorts a little. He hadn’t expected Eren to remember him mentioning something so trivial as his Father being very particular about tree traditions, and the thought makes his chest hurt once again. 

“Better than I expected.”

“Stop hogging the phone.” Watching the screen, Armin sees the tell tale pale hand of Mikasa swiftly clipping Eren around the head. He could tell it wasn’t hard, but Eren whines nonetheless.

“My phone,” He complains, but the sound is muffled. The screen flashes vaguely for a few moments - Armin guess there’s some grappling over the phone - until Mikasa re-appears, in the middle of Dr and Mrs Jaeger.

“My, surely that can’t be our little Armin,” Mrs Jaeger coos, visibly fawning over the phone screen. “Since when did you get so big?” She demands, not angry but still oddly fierce with emotion. Her eyes aren’t unlike Eren’s - they’re the same shape, and tend to sit in their sockets with the same fiery passion, despite hers being a more muted brown. Otherwise, they’re the spitting image: identical bone structure with remarkably similar smooth skin stretched perfectly over it, framed by the perfect, well kept eyebrows. Armin doubts Mrs Jaeger has ever had to groom them. She seems naturally perfect.

“Mrs Jaeger,” Armin beams. “Dr Jaeger. It’s been too long.”

“Oh, enough of the nonsense,” Firm, but not unkind, she snaps. “It’s Carla and Grisha. You know that.”

“Yeah, Armin,” He can hear Eren surl from offscreen. “Since you’re on such personal terms with-”

“Shut up!” Mikasa hisses, saving Armin any more embarrassment this evening. He wouldn’t be able to handle Eren bringing up the childish  _ ‘your dad’ _ innuendo from the driveway the other night. He thinks it would make him cringe so hard that he breaks his own neck from recoiling in shame.

“Anyway,” He begins loudly, abruptly, “Carla, Grisha, how were your travels? Switzerland, was it?”

“Why, thank you for asking. Well..”

After Carla recounts their travels, with the occasional excited input from Grisha about exciting medical developments and equipment, Eren manages to steal his phone back away from his parents, who then promptly disappear to make drinks in the kitchen. Armin hopes it’s hot cocoa. He would kill just to  _ see _ a steaming hot mug at this point. It’s been years since he’s gotten a sip of Carla’s famed hot chocolate. He bets the recipe has been improved by now - oh, God, yeah, it’s probably even more rich, the perfect balance between sweet and sickly, with the most perfect silky consistency that any single drink has ever had. It would be like drinking a literal cloud. The Angels couldn’t make a more perfect beverage if they tried.

“Armin,” Eren cackles, “You’re drooling. I think someone needs to get to bed.” Armin’s jaw shuts immediately, with enough force to have had someone’s hand clean off. The impact makes his teeth clank together noisily. 

“‘M not drooling.” Despite his protests, Armin wipes the drool off of his chin. “ _ And _ I’m not tired.” 

“Sure you’re not, buddy,” Eren dotes. In that moment, Armin decides that he wouldn’t mind so much if he and Eren were the only two people on the planet, if this is how he gets treated alone. He feels like Carla’s hot cocoa by the fire, and watching Elf under crocheted blankets, and 7th grade math homework in an overly warm kitchen. It’s less like butterflies, when Eren is like this. Less like the instinctive pulling and chasing. It’s almost as if, in moments like this, the compass inside of him stops whirring frantically in search. In moments like this, Armin feels like he’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK GOD THE CHRISTMAS ARC IS DONE LOL. im so glad you've all just gotten into the habit of calling everything that happens an arc it makes me laugh,,, so hard omg. it was SO hard to write family interactions?!?!?! hope you enjoyed and it wasn't too awkwardly written lol. just a pre-warning- the next few chapters are all over the place length wise. bring on the.. makeover arc? party arc? 
> 
> join me on monday for dolly parton, over-excited historia, and levi making an appearance.


	14. tumble outta bed n stumble 2 the kitchen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for the briefest mention of drinking. it gets more extreme in the next few chapters.

Armin drives his parents back to the airport. It’s weird to be the one driving them around - he still inexplicably feels as if he should be sat in the backseat with a booster seat. 

“Now, you remember the rules. Behave yourself,” His mother starts, already beginning to count the list of rules on her fingers. “No junk food. No drinking. No parties-”

“I know, mama,” Armin says in his best perfect, golden child voice, trying not to cringe at the way he sounds exactly like a teacher's pet, despite the fact he was planning on doing all of those things as soon as Historia took him to his hair appointment. That was another thing he would have to hide - he thinks his mother might cry if she sees him without the long hair he has sported since practically birth. No more Skype video calls for a while, he supposes. Would it grow back quick enough that he can pretend he never cut it in the first place…?

“Armin! Are you listening to your mother?” His dad demands. Clearly, Thobias is still a little upset about being relegated to the backseat. 

“Yep!” Hastily, he answers, then, with a sly smile, “No drugs, no sex before marriage-”

“Very funny,” Marie deadpans. “Keep up that attitude and I’ll add it to the list.” She threatens, with a soft smile that tells Armin she isn’t serious. “And don’t forget to keep up with school work. Friends won’t get you a job.”

“I know.”

“And call us. Whenever you want, okay? Day or night. Except for when we’re at work.”

“I know.”

“And call your aunt. It’s good practice for your German. You’ve been practicing your German, ja?”

“Yes,” Armin huffs. “Anything else?”

“Make sure your Grandpa is eating well. He’s looking frail. And get him out of the house once in a while.” Marie looks as if she’s scanning her mind for anything else she could possibly remind Armin about, as if he hasn’t had all of these reminders at least four times already on the drive to the airport.

“He goes to the community centre, remember. With all the other old people.”

“Armin!” His father gasps, looking well and truly appalled. “You can’t call him that!”

“With all the other  _ elderly, _ then,” Armin corrects himself with a roll of his yes. He taps the steering wheel impatiently. They’ve been parked up for at least eight minutes now (he's been counting them down on the car radio clock), and he’s perhaps, maybe, possibly a little teeny tiny bit on edge about the day's upcoming events. What with his haircut and the party, he’s starting to feel a somewhat unpleasant mix of excited and overwhelmed. And maybe a little bit guilty about blatantly lying to his mother’s face. He’s never been so brazen before.

“Good.” Patting down her pockets, Marie finally says. “Right. That’s everything. Tickets, Thobias?”

“Got them.”

“Right,” She repeats, stalling so obviously that Armin fights the urge to roll his eyes again. “Well then.”

“Goodbye, mama. Goodbye, papa. Until next time?” Armin says, finally. They both nod back at him. Already, he can see tears welling up in his mother’s eyes, so he pulls her into an awkward hug over the gearstick. Something digs into his hip bone, but Marie’s grip is relentless, so there’s no escaping his discomfort. Perhaps worse than this is the uncomfortable handshake he shares with his father from the backseat, and the weird half wave he sends towards them as they disappear through the huge automatic doors. But that’s it. They’re gone. Time for Armin to switch back on his cool, college-party attending persona. Which, of course, means switching from the radio to the Dolly Parton’s Greatest Hits CD that has been jammed into his CD player for the past few months. Fingers still drumming on the steering wheel, this time in tune to 9 to 5, Armin prays none of the passengers in the cars near him can listen into his vehicle as he sings.

“WELL I TUMBLE OUTTA BED AND STUMBLE TO THE KITCHEN-”

Next stop is campus to collect Historia. The student accommodation looks unfit to Historia’s immaculate taste, but Armin supposes she’s the kind of person who can make even a squat college dorm look fashionable, probably with furniture she upcycled herself. She probably even charmed Ymir into doing the heavy lifting. Speaking of - the couple stands, arms linked, in front of the building, Ymir clutching an absurdly large handbag that clearly went better with Historia’s outfit. Rolling down his window, Armin turns his CD down.

“Armin! Hey!” Historia squeaks, clicking over in a strappy pair of heels that can’t have been near enough for the near freezing weather. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought Ymir. Can I use your trunk? I thought we could just change at your place so I brought my outfit and I don’t want it to get creased so I thought maybe I could hang it up in your trunk if you wouldn’t mind. And there’s our overnight things… Make sure you pack yours too, can’t have you driving home… Oh, the drinks, too, of course!” Her voice is even higher and faster than usual. It’s bizarre to see her so excited when usually she’s so composed and laid back. “I have all my makeup too in case you change your mind about the makeover,” She adds, a little more sheepishly.

“Hey,” Ymir grunts, at her first chance to get a word in. Only slightly disturbed, Armin blinks.

“Uhh. Trunk’s open?” Nodding her thanks, Ymir goes to load the trunk up while Historia hops in to the passenger seat. “Oh - uh, Historia, there’s a gift for you in the back seat-” He nods towards the potted houseplant that he had buckled in for safety - “As a thank you for all your help. So. Uh. Thank you,” Slightly embarrassed, Armin mumbles. He’s saved by the creak of the door behind him opening.

“Nice friend,” Ymir snorts, grinning at the plant.

“She’s  _ my _ friend, Ymir!” Historia beams, blue eyes glistening like gemstones, “Armin got her for me! Her name is Cynthia.” She finishes, almost solemnly. Armin is impressed that she’s already given the plant a definitive name. “She’ll look so beautiful on the window sill, won’t she?” She asks, seemingly to nobody, as she plugs an address into her phone. Wiggling excitedly in her seat, she props the phone on Armin’s dashboard. “K, just follow where she says. Oh god, are you excited? I’m  _ so _ excited.”

Feeling his nervous energy practically melt away when faced with the positivity that Historia is radiating, Armin grins and sets off out of the parking lot.

“Holy fuck,” Ymir mumurs, causing the pair of blondes in the front seat to jump and then pretend that they had totally remembered that Historia had brought her girlfriend along. “Is this.. Dolly Parton? Yo, this shit  _ slaps _ , turn it up!”

Armin’s throat already feels raw from shouting along to country music for most of the morning by the time they arrive outside of a seemingly high-end hairdresser. In fact, it was so fancy, that it labelled itself a hair  _ stylist _ on it’s shop front. Feeling too giddy to worry too much, he lets Historia take his hand with her own delicate, perfectly yet sensibly manicured one and drag him into the store, giggling all the while. 

Instantly, he regrets this decision. A stern, grey-eyed glare meets him as they push through the door. It takes Armin a moment to even realise that the yes actually belongs to a person; his immediate thought is that he’s looking at a poster of some intense and perpetually moody supermodel. Eventually, when his brain has rebooted after its momentary short-circuit, he registers the man the eyes belong to. Now standing, Armin takes in his petite frame, crisp undercut and unimpressed scowl.

“Historia, you aren’t due your trim for another two weeks and you  _ know _ I don’t take drop ins,” He says, dismissively waving her out.

“A pleasure to see you too, Levi,” Historia replies, curtly, clearly unfazed. “We’re here for Arlert’s 11 a.m appointment, actually.”

Levi, Armin assumes, looks up from his computer screen again, meeting Armin’s eyes once more. In what can only be described as a powermove, he draws in a painfully slow breath and releases it in a pointed sigh, before looking down at a book with names and times scribbled dutifully into neat columns. “So you are,” He huffs. “Seat,” He orders, nodding to the chair nearest the back. “Ymir, you can stay in the waiting area. Don’t touch anything. I mean it, this time. It was hell getting your nasty finger prints off of this counter.” Ymir looks outraged for a moment, opening her mouth and raising a clenched fist, but Levi stops her with a pointed finger. “No.” Armin watches on in mild horror as Ymir actually submits to someone who isn’t Historia, simply taking off her woolly hat and throwing herself on to the plush, black, faux leather couch to the left of the front desk.

In the meantime, Armin is ushered to sit in front of a mirror. He swings his legs a little as Levi and Historia murmur over the preference pictures on her phone, feeling a little helpless and childish, like his Mama is back and telling the hairdresser what she wants his hair to look like. Except his Mama would never have brought him to such a scary hairstylist who stares him down in the mirror.

“Big change,” Bluntly, Levi remarks, spray bottle in one hand and the other rested on a popped hip. Armin can’t blame himself for thinking he was a model earlier.

“It’s for a boy!” Historia interrupts gleefully.

“Historia!” Armin hisses. He doesn’t need to be faced by his reflection to know that he’s turning an unflattering shade of red.

“Oh, I knew. Look at you,” Levi scoffs. Armin is pretty sure that hairdressers are meant to tell you lovely things and compliment your hair colour and say how well the style you chose suits your bone structure and definitely not insult you in the slightest, but isn’t prepared to dispute anything Levi says to him. Every glare he’s sent feels like it’s shaving five years off of his life span. Maybe that’s the secret to Historia’s beauty, he thinks. Distantly, Ymir whines something about being bored, so Historia scuttles off to attend to whatever it is she needs. A babysitter, most likely.

“She better not be touching shit,” Levi grumbles, taking a strand of Armin’s hair between two finger and snipping. “Word of advice: don’t mess with a hair stylist, brat. We’ve got enough scissors that if one were to go missing in someone’s neck nobody would notice.” Nervously laughing, Armin offers Levi a thumbs up, which is promptly ignored. With his hand now clasped in his lap, Armin takes the few moments of silence to survey the salon as far his eyes will allow without having to move his head - he has a scary feeling Levi will move it back with a bit more force than necessary. It’s decorated in black and white, with a few deep green accents that remind him (almost annoyingly) of Eren’s eyes whenever he catches a glimpse of a green poster frame or privacy screen. The white tiled floor is more spotless than that of any hairstylists’ Armin has seen before - surely Levi must be spending most of his day sweeping for it to be so clean? - so he feels almost guilty for strands of his hair to be tarnishing it’s previously immaculate cleanliness.

It’s hard not to feel guilty when Levi’s eyes are piercing straight through you like that. Sure, Armin knows he’s just concentrating on doing a good job, but he still can’t help but feel as if he should be confessing to some terrible crime that he’s pretty sure he never committed.

“Relax.” Levi snaps. “Your shoulders are so tense. Don’t make me fuck up your haircut. I don’t offer refunds.”

“Um- yeah- sorry-” Armin stammers, forcing his shoulders to drop into a more relaxed position, which undoes all of the knots that he hadn’t noticed had formed in his muscles. Weirdly, he already feels much better, more grounded, when he readjusts himself more comfortably and more confidently into the chair. He even dares to take a peek into the mirror. While the haircut is far from done, Armin can already see an entirely new boy, no,  _ man _ , he thinks, taking shape in front of him. Levi hasn’t even started trimming his fringe, but the back and sides are shorter, completely clean and even. He doesn’t even start to feel nervous when he hears the tell tale buzz of the clippers working on the back of his head to form a stylish undercut. He stares on with something close to awe in his stomach as he watches the way Levi measures up the length with squinted eyes, making the most minute and precise adjustments with a pair of thin scissors, so specific that Armin can’t even see the difference. There’s a few, frankly, unbearable minutes when Levi makes the exact adjustments to his bangs where their faces are practically touching due to the close proximity.  _ He’s rather handsome _ , _ if you’re into that kind of thing _ , Armin thinks, then blushes furiously, and even harder when he watches the way Levi’s lip twitch into a barely perceptible smirk.

“Taken,” He teases, waggling a shining silver wedding band, as if reading Armin's mind. _Oh God, can he?_ “Besides, you’ve gone to the lengths of a haircut for this mystery kid. And, if I do say so myself,” Levi steps gracefully to the side, producing a hand mirror from the meticulously organized cart next to him in one fluid movement, which he holds behind Armin’s head, “I think he’ll be quite pleased by it.”

And, by God, Levi’s right. Everything about the hairstyle feels sophisticated, as if it’s been hand tailored to the most exact measurements of his face. Shockingly, it’s revealed to Armin that his head isn’t actually entirely round - there’s a subtle definition to the cut of his jaw and jut of his cheekbones that he had never noticed before. He feels oddly grown up looking into his reflection, like he’s a teenager catching a train alone for the first time. Slowly bringing a hand up to tug on the end of his bags, he notices the three reflected figures in the mirror: Levi, to his right, stood with crossed arms, looking almost admiringly at his own handiwork; Ymir, to his left leisurely nodding with a satisfied smirk; and, in the centre of the two, an ecstatic Historia grinning at him. She even offers a small, quiet clap, for good measure.

Armin smiles back, all of his teeth bared in joy.

“Thanks again, Levi!” Historia calls, the three students now stood at the door, Armin having paid for his services.

“Thank you,” Armin repeats. He’s clutching the business card Levi slipped him just moments ago in one hand, and waving with the other. The shorter man is clearly biting back a smile, but he wouldn’t dare point that out.

“Tch,” Levi frowns, but the corner of his lips keeps twitching, “Ymir, I can see your fingerprints on the glass from here.” He misses a beat. “Bye,” He chokes out, grimacing a little bit at the slightest expression of fondness for the three as they file out of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no thoughts only hairdresser - sorry, STYLIST - levi. i'll post a one shot about him and erwin at some point because hairstylist levi and history teacher erwin just makes sense. no im not taking criticism <3  
> on friday, old people like historia, armin can't choose an outfit, and reading too much into pizza toppings.


	15. Getting Ready

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor content warning for drinking for the next few chapters :) reminder will be put at the beginning of each of them. stay safe! :D

After another over excited, high energy car ride filled with three extra bright voices singing (read: yelling) along to Dolly -  _ “seriously, these bangers never get old,” _ Ymir had wheezed, already cracking open her first can of Bud that she had sourced from Armin’s trunk, buried under two absurdly huge bags for a one night stay at Jean’s that Armin assumes Historia had packed - Armin finds himself having to compose himself in the hallway of his home before greeting his grandpa.

“Grandpa, I brought company!” He warns, kicking off his sneakers at the shoe rack and padding through to the front room. The old man is hunched over their current jigsaw: a snowy Winter scene of a charming garden that they had started just a few days before. The edges had been tough work - there was so much pure white snow that it was difficult to even discern the ground from the sky, but Leon appeared to be making quick work of the garden shed now they’d gotten into the swing of it.

“Wazzahhhh, Gramps- ouch!” Ymir says, still clutching a beer can, too loud for the homey living room, until Historia swiftly hits her arm before offering her a dazzling, sweet smile. Unsurprisingly, Ymir is completely and immediately smitten, any anger immediately forgotten.

“Mr Arlert. So nice to meet you!” The blonde charms, now, lightly stepping over to the older man with an extended hand. The old man, clearly quite pleased, presses a whiskery kiss to it. “Historia. And this is Ymir.”

“Pleasure,” Her girlfriend nods, raising her hand in brief greeting.

“Oh, what a sweet jigsaw!” Historia trills, cutting off any other greeting Leon and Ymir may have cared to exchange. “Such a darling little scene- gosh, your patience must be incredible!”

“I helped with the edges!” Armin says, in a childish attempt to earn some praise too.

“Wow. Great job, Armin,” Historia replies, with emphasised condescension. “You really pull your weight around here, don’t you?” Her complete lack of enthusiasm makes it very clear to Armin that she does not, in fact, think this at all. One might even hazard a guess that she thinks the exact opposite. Leon chuckles under his breath, shooting Armin a silly face, tongue poked out as if to say  _ told you so _ and all, when nobody is looking, then returns to being fawned over by Historia. Meanwhile, Armin and Ymir are left scowling at the absence of praise for them.

“We’re going to get changed,” Armin declares after a few more minutes of woeful ignorance from Historia and gleefully cruel looks from his Grandpa. Historia turns with a roll of her eyes, but begins ascending the stairs nonetheless.

As a child, Armin had always struggled with independence. Admittedly, he was needy, anxious, maybe even a little clingy, always wanting a second opinion on everything. He had been so indecisive that simple decisions such as what he wanted from the ice cream truck could send him into a nervous spiral. Was he in the mood for ice cream? Well, yes, but then there was the matter of the cone, and if he didn’t eat the ice cream fast enough it would go soggy. A popsicle was the sensible choice, the one his mother would be less mad about if she somehow found out that Eren, at seven years old, was spending his weekly allowance on cold treats for himself and his friends. But the ice cream…

Eventually, Eren and Mikasa would just make the decision for him. Somehow, they were always right, as if they knew what Armin had really wanted from the very beginning, even if he didn’t himself. And the ice cream had been so delicious, drizzled in strawberry syrup that made his hands and mouth sticky when he was usually so careful not to make a mess, but none of that mattered when the three of them had skipped, hand in sticky hand, carefree, back down the street to continue whatever intense make-believe game they were into at the time in the Jaegers’ backyard.

So, when the pressure of choosing an outfit gets too much, Armin Facetimes Mikasa. 

She answers on the third ring, sitting at her unbelievably messy desk-turned-dressing-table, with her bangs pinned away from her face in rollers. The surface of the table is barely visible for the sheer volume of skin, makeup, and hair products that are currently in use; he had known that getting ready was a big deal, that probably deserved capitalisation (Getting Ready seemed much more appropriate for the situation that was occurring with Historia sat in front of his floor length mirror, at least) but Armin wasn’t sure he could name purposes for at least half of those things.

“Woah. Hair.” She’s always had a beautiful way with words. It does the trick, though, prompting Armin to realise that he has been staring at the scene around her in horror for a bit too long.

“Yeah. I know. I look great,” He groans, pained. “But I don’t know what to wear.”

The hair is forgotten almost immediately in the face of such a crisis. Mikasa is too level headed to let trivial matters like hair get in the way of serious decisions - and what to wear was a very important matter. “Tell me about it!” Mikasa huffs, turning to her mirror and applying something to her eyelashes. “Seriously, the guys are just going to rock up in the same jeans and t-shirt they wear to college and call it a day. Inexcusable. It’s a party… at least… put in some effort…” She starts trailing off, clearly paying more attention to her make up. Armin sort of can’t blame her, simply mesmerized and mildly alarmed by how close that wand gets to her eyes - surely that hurts? “Sorry. Done now. What have you narrowed it down to?”

Dismally, Armin points his phone camera towards the sad piles of clothes that currently litter his bedroom floor. “Historia’s being no help,” He explains, bitterly, “She just put headphones in. Ymir says she needs to enter a tranquil state to do her makeup.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to interrupt her,” Ymir chips in, from the spot where she’s lounging on his bed. All she had to do was rake a brush through her hair (and even that was only after Historia had begged her too) and change into a nicer t-shirt, which, for Ymir, meant one without some kind of disturbing stain down the front, before she was officially ready. “I learned the hard way.” She shudders, and Armin immediately knows not to ask: he knows he wouldn’t like the answer.

“Is she wearing the same outfit she always is?” Mikasa asks, hushed, from his phone. 

“Well…” Armin pulls a face, not wanting to be completely unfair, but still disappointed in the lack of effort. “She did change her shirt?” 

“Unbelievable,” Mikasa mutters, dabbing something under her eyes.

“Heard that!” Ymir growls.

“Okay,” Mikasa shouts back, so Ymir can hear her over the phone, unbothered. “Cool.”

“Mikasa!” Armin whines, “You’re supposed to be helping me choose an outfit, remember?”

“Fine,” She says, despite still not looking at her phone screen and instead preening herself in the mirror, clearly not happy with the result under her eyes as she dabs at it with a flannel of some description. “‘Mkay, I’m thinking top half from outfit one at the store - that’s the big polo shirt -” Armin holds up a shirt matching the description. “ - no, it was the cream one… Yeah, that’s the one, with the sweater vest - perfect, you shouldn’t get too hot with short sleeves. Okay, and what about those kind of beige, grandpa-y cord trousers-”

“They’re not grandpa-y!” Armin protests, in horror. Surely Mikasa hasn’t been advising him to dress like Grandpa Leon… Well, maybe he was impartial to one of his old sweaters ( _ vintage _ , he told people when they asked where he had brought them from), but, really!

“No, you know what I mean. The pair that makes your ass-”

“Mikasa!”

“Oh, you know the pair anyway.”

“..Yes,” He admits, begrudgingly, taking them from the top of the pile nearest him. “Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Mm,” She hums, as if to agree. “Don’t mention it. Text me when you leave?” 

“Right.”

“And don’t forget to pack a toothbrush. You’ll want it if you wake up with a hangover.” With that, she ends the call. Never really been one for goodbyes, Armin thinks, fondly. Sighing, he presses the outfit his best friends chose to his body. She made the right choice, he thinks, almost upset that he hadn’t come up with the combination himself. He’s gonna look great, he thinks, thanks to her. He shoots her an extra thank you text, even adding a ‘<3’, just to get his message across.

**from: kasa**

**👍**

**eren says he made reiner order a veggie pizza for u bc he knows they’re ur fav. and that i should tell u bc he wants full credit. so. just so yk. he chose the pizza**

**didnt pay 4 it tho. cheapskate**

As he puts his phone back down, Armin smiles, trying not to feel giddy just because a boy remembered his favourite pizza topping. Of course, he fails, and quickly goes to get changed in the bathroom, mainly to hide the growing warmth in his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> obligatory flashback in the filler chapter: check. next chapter is longer to make up for the lack of action today lol.
> 
> next time: party arc in full swing, hannes cameo, jean being rich
> 
> thank you as always for all the kudos, bookmarks and comments. they all mean the world to me! love you all!!! <3333

**Author's Note:**

> so that was chapter one! the first two chapters are a little bit of background and setting up the dynamics between characters. i really enjoyed writing this! i have the next few chapters written and ready to go. planning on updating every friday and maybe on a monday too. i really hope you enjoyed and that i'll see you next time!
> 
> as always, kudos and comments are very much appreciated! i'd love to hear you guys' thoughts!


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